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J 



























ANNA NUGENT 


Novels by Isabel C. Clarke 

Published by Benziger Brothers 

In same Uniform Series, each, net, $2.00; postage 15 cents. 
ANNA NUGENT 

“ A sparkling romance with two delightful characters, Anna and Michael, 
struggling through a maze of obstacles to declare their love for each other.” 

VIOLA HUDSON 

“ A striking story—a distinct addition to Catholic literature.”— Liguorian. 

CARINA 

"The greatest Catholic woman in fiction.”— Catholic Tribune. 

AVERAGE CABINS 

*' Belongs to the class of which there cannot be too many.”— Are Maria. 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 

" Is told in Miss Clarke’s best styl t,."—Messenger of the Sacred Heart. 

THE POTTER’S HOUSE 

“It abounds with her characteristically effective descriptive passages.” 
— America. 

TRESSIDER’S SISTER 

"The story is well and interestingly told,”— Catholic World. 

URSULA FINCH 

" A love story that is both wholesome and delightful,”— Fortnightly Revie «■. 

EUNICE 

“ So charming in telling, so Catholic in spirit.”— Catholic Universe, 

THE ELSTONES 

" The interest never flags.”— America. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER 

*' Good fiction is richer for its advent.”— New World. 

CHILDREN OF EVE 

" The narrative is powerful.”— Boston Evening Record. 

THE DEEP HEART 

" Altogether delightful, graceful and uplifting.”— Catholic Bulletin . 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION 

" It is a thrilling setting handled with power.”— Ecclesiastical Review. 

FINE CLAY 

"Full of human interest, not a dull page.”— Western Catholic. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS 

" The book is interesting throughout.”— Exponent. 

THE REST HOUSE 

The interest holds down to the last line.”— Brooklyn Tablet. 

ONLY ANNE 

" A genuine welcome addition to Catholic fiction.”— Ave Maria. 

THE SECRET CITADEL 

" The plot is original and forceful.”— Magnificat. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER 

*’ Full of charm and interest.”—.S*. Anthony Messenger. 





Anna Nugent 


A NOVEL 


by y 

ISABEL C. CLARKE 

Author of “ Carina 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 


1924 











Copyright, 1924, by Benziger Brothers 



Printed in the United States of America 


CONTENTS 


rQ 

) 

r 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Nugent Family. 7 

II. The Coming and Going of Gay Lawton . . 3 1 

III. Eighteen Years Old. 50 

IV. Mrs. Nugent Interrupts. 7 1 

V. At the Villa Caterina. 95 

VI. News from London.m 

VII. The Coming of Michael.125 

VIII. Countess Selvi. x 49 

IX. Blue Days at Sea. 1 7 ° 

X. A Conversion. 1 9 1 

XI. Arranging a Marriage.212 

XII. The Plot Succeeds.232 

XIII. An Awkward Thing to Play with Souls . . 250 

XIV. Clouds on the Horizon.271 

XV. Failure.294 

XVI. Broken Off. 317 

XVII. Committed for Trial. 339 

XVIII. Not Guilty.361 

XIX. The Dream is Fulfilled. 377 

XX. A Letter from Countess Benedetto Selvi . . 392 


5 











ANNA NUGENT 


CHAPTER I 

THE NUGENT FAMILY 

I 

I DON’T mind having Anna,” said Mrs. Nugent, 
in her sleepy way. “The boys,” she added, with 
sudden emphasis, as if she were now thoroughly 
awake, “will be out in the world by the time she grows 
up.” 

“What has that got to do with it?” inquired 
Athelstan Nugent. 

She shot a sleepy glance, not devoid of irritability, 
at him, murmured, “Everything,” and relapsed into 
dreamland. 

He always found it a difficult matter, even now 
after twenty-four years of matrimony, to follow the 
trend of his wife’s absent-minded, detached sentences. 
They had a sure sequence in her own mind, and pos¬ 
sessed, as he was aware, what psychologists sometimes 
call emotional congruity; and he was ready to believe 
that his own inability to grasp their inner significance 
was due to some lack in himself. He was a shrewd, 
hard-headed business man, and understood things 
best when they were set down in black and white. Of 
the two he preferred figures to words. Words were 



8 


ANNA NUGENT 


prone to deceive—or how could lawyers live?—but 
with figures you knew where you were. ... If they 
blundered you knew where you were, too. Perhaps it 
was on account of their irrefragable logic that Mrs. 
Nugent so disliked figures. Thus she could never re¬ 
member what her dresses cost. Ten—twenty pounds— 
what did it matter, since to pay for them you had only 
to write a check ? It may be mentioned that Athelstan 
Nugent’s married life had been largely spent in the 
good-humored writing of checks. 

“She won’t be in the way—there’s May’s room,” 
continued Mrs. Nugent, while the letter she had just 
been reading fell to the floor with a thin little pro¬ 
testing crackle. “I hate empty rooms—the servants 
let them get so dusty. It wants doing up, but that 
must wait now.” 

Athelstan Nugent’s cousin, Temple Nugent, had 
lately died, leaving an orphan daughter, Afina, whose 
guardianship he was now invited to accept. 

“Well, then, I suppose she’d better come,” he said. 
“It’ll be a change for her—London after Italy. I 
was always against Temple’s settling abroad. It’s 
all very well to spend a few years there when you’re 
young, but it’s awfully rough on your executors if 
you stay and die there. Property too . . . what’ll 
a girl like that do with a villa in Italy?” He shook 
his head. “First expatriating yourself—then marry¬ 
ing an Italian. ... I never saw her. People said 
she was good-looking. But you never know where 
you are with a foreigner. They’re not like us.” 

“She must either go to a convent school or have a 
Catholic governess here,” said Mrs. Nugent. “How 
absurd of Temple to let her be brought up in her 
mother’s faith. Why, the woman died when Anna 
was two, so there was really no need to consider her 
feelings.” 

“But he was a convert himself and he’s made a 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


9 


great point in his will about Anna’s being educated 
as a Catholic,” said Athelstan. “We shall have to 
be very strict about it.” 

“Someone will have to take her to church,” mur¬ 
mured Mrs. Nugent, “and I think it had better be 
Michael. He’s the least likely to be influenced. I 
can’t go myself—the incense gives me asthma.” 

Having settled this point to her satisfaction, she 
relapsed into silence. Athelstan was very deeply en¬ 
grossed in the prospectus of a singularly attractive 
company. His own name appeared upon the list of 
directors, and it gratified him to think that to see it 
there would give confidence to those innumerable in¬ 
vestors who would rush to subscribe. Reading it im¬ 
partially in the cold light of print, it was difficult to 
believe that enormous, fantastic fortunes were not 
awaiting those who were fortunate enough to have 
shares allotted to them. His thoughts were tempo¬ 
rarily diverted from Anna Nugent, but his wife 
brought him back from these lofty financial soarings 
by saying: 

“I daresay May will have her down there, some¬ 
times in the holidays.” 

“Doubt it,” said Athelstan, shaking his head. May 
was not at all disposed to be lavish of hospitality 
toward her own family, with the exception of her 
favorite brother, Rodney. He was often invited to 
shoot, hunt, fish and play golf on Lord Chingford’s 
beautiful Devonshire property—a house ceded to him 
by his father, old Lord Wendle, at the time of his 
marriage to May Nugent. May was not often in 
London, except for a few weeks in the height of the 
season, and she seldom brought her children—of 
whom there were two—to town. 

“I’m sure I never fussed about my children’s health 
as May does,” Mrs. Nugent had been heard to say 
querulously, “and look how strong they all are!” It 


IO 


ANNA NUGENT 


was no fun to be a grandmother at forty-five if one 
was never consulted about the babies, and when one’s 
proffered advice was airily dismissed as old-fashioned, 
and even antiquated. 

“Oh, that’s never done now I It’s ouite gone out. 
I wonder any of us lived to grow up,’ May used to 
say disdainfully. 

“There’s an awful lot in his will about safeguard¬ 
ing her religion, Juliet,’’ said Athelstan, returning to 
that document, of which a copy lay on the table beside 
him. 

“There would be. You may be sure the priests 
made him put all that in.” 

“I suppose so. We always thought he only turned 
Catholic to please Vittoria—she refused to marry him 
otherwise. He seemed quite tepid, and then she died 
so very soon.” 

Yet, had he been tepid—this quiet student with 
his nose in his books and his heart in the grave with 
his darling Vittoria? ... It was impossible to say, 
and these stringent, elaborate, and detailed instruc¬ 
tions concerning his only child’s education seemed to 
give the lie to that suggested indifference. 

Perhaps it was because he believed Athelstan and 
his wife to be the most tolerant and unprejudiced 
people in the world, that he had consigned his little 
daughter to their care. 

Athelstan and Temple had been boys together, 
going to the same schools and spending their holidays, 
for the most part, under the same roof, but they had 
been friends rather from propinquity than from any 
community of aim or interest. But that past intimacy, 
which had perished utterly when Temple, as a young 
man, had gone to live at Sant’ Elena, a little town 
on the Ligurian coast, made Athelstan all the more 
ready now to accept the new responsibility thrust upon 
him—the guardianship of the little girl, Anna. He 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


it 


had a good home to offer her; his wife made no ob¬ 
jection, and he was conscious of rather liking the idea. 
He had missed May a good deal since her marriage. 

“1 shall go out and fetch her myself,” said Mrs. 
Nugent. ‘‘I should like to see what sort of a place 
Sant’ Elena is. Next week will be time enough. This 

Countess-” she picked up the letter and glanced 

at it again—“Countess Selvi seems quite ready to keep 
an eye upon her for the present. I wonder if she and 
Temple?” She broke off absently. They knew so very 
little about Temple, his friends, his mode of life. He 
had written about once a year, generally at Christmas, 
giving Athelstan his brief, unimportant news. There 
was always a mention of Anna in the letters, and last 
year he bad acknowledged that he wasn’t feeling very 
fit and the doctors had talked of an operation, but he 
hoped to escape that. 

But there had never been any mention of Countess 
Selvi, yet in the rather effusive letter which Mrs. 
Nugent had just received from that lady, she seemed 
to take it for granted that they had heard of her, and 
of her friendship for “dear Vittoria,” for “darling 
Anna,” and even for Temple himself. 

“Benedetto and Anna are just like brother and 
sister,” she wrote; “my boy will be quite desolate at 
losing his little friend.” 

“I expect we shall find her much more Italian than 
English,” said Mrs. Nugent. “I think it was a great 
mistake to send her here to us after educating her en¬ 
tirely abroad like that,” 

“I wonder what Michael and Rodney will sayi* 

said Athelstan. . 

His two sons were away from home just then. 
Michael, the elder, was at Oxford, and Rodney was 
at Sandhurst. Athelstan was very proud of them, 
especially of Rodney, who was good-looking and 
charming, popular with both men and women. 



12 


ANNA NUGENT 


Michael was of a colder type, more reserved, more 
of a Nugent; he could never quite make the fellow 
out. Athelstan wondered why his wife should have 
settled so spontaneously that to Michael should be 
relegated the task of escorting Anna to Mass, judg¬ 
ing him to be the least likely of anyone to be in¬ 
fluenced by the glamour and enchantment of Rome. 
It seemed to him one of those arbitrary, puzzling de¬ 
cisions of hers for which, search as he might, he 
could And no adequate reason. 


2 

Mrs. Nugent was one of those apparently indolent, 
apathetic people who when aroused become almost 
diabolically active. This hidden quality had never 
manifested itself with such appalling and dynamic 
energy as in the days when she had resolved to bring 
about a marriage between her daughter, May, and 
Lord Chingford during the last year of the War. 
Even Athelstan had been astonished and secretly dis¬ 
mayed at this exhibition of competency and efficiency. 
Accurate in aim and deadly in accomplishment, she 
completely overthrew Lord Wendle’s objections 
based upon the extreme youth of his son. Men 
younger than he was, she declared, were getting mar¬ 
ried every day. Athelstan, with a reluctance he was 
careful not to betray, clinched the matter by settling 
a large sum upon the young couple. Things weren’t 
going too well in the city just then, and it was an in¬ 
convenient moment. But his wife impressed upon 
him that May’s future happiness was at stake. It 
was an investment, too, she declared, as Chingford 
would inherit a great deal of property when his father 
died. But as Lord Wendle was a hale and strong 
man in the middle fifties, this contingency was of no 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


13 


immediate consequence. Still, the marriage took 
place, and had turned out very well. Mrs. Nugent 
then lapsed into her normal state of lethargy, as if 
she had completely exhausted the accumulated energy 
which for so many years had been repressed. 

It was in something of this same spirit that she 
started for Sant’ Elena to “settle” Temple Nugent’s 
affairs, and fetch his daughter. Those with whom 
she came into contact on that occasion formed a very 
erroneous estimate of her character. 

There were difficulties, of course. To begin with, 
she couldn’t speak Italian, her acquaintance with that 
language being limited to such phrases as La donna 
e mobile, and Ah, che la morte, which were extremely 
useless for all practical purposes. She was horrified, 
too, at the slowness with which things are achieved 
in Italy. Of course, it was pleasant at the Villa 
Caterina during that mild March weather, when the 
flowers were springing up in the garden, and a film of 
delicate emerald was beginning to show on the trees 
and shrubs. She even thought the climate preferable 
to that of the French Riviera, the winds were less 
cold. But the house! The doors that didn’t shut, 
the windows that let in great draughts of sea air, the 
inadequacy of the wood fires to heat large lofty rooms 
with stone walls and floors. Temple had sather let 
the place go to pieces during those last years of his 
life. It had been difficult, too, to get things done dur¬ 
ing the War, when practically all Italy’s man-power 
had been concentrated along the Austrian frontier.. 

Mrs. Nugent’s manner was also slightly offensive 
to old Francesca. She shouted at her in English, as 
many people do, thinking that noise emphasizes a for¬ 
eign language and makes it easier of interpretation. 
What had she been about, not to buy mourning for 
Miss Anna ? Anna, who happened to be present, in¬ 
terpreted the question. The old woman excused her- 


n 


ANNA NUGENT 


self on various grounds, the principal one being that 
she had had no money for some months past—the 
Signor Nugent (she pronounced it Noojenty) having 
been too ill to attend to such things. And he had 
always hated mourning, would never permit Anna to 
wear it even after her mother died. That was why 
Anna had appeared before Mrs. Nugent—who was 
henceforth to be Aunt Juliet to her—in a white 
woolen dress with a colored bow in her hair. 
Francesca explained all this with that desperate and 
obsequious humility with which the Italian servant 
will receive even the mildest reproof. 

Mrs. Nugent was surprised to find that Anna was 
so tall. She had vaguely realized she must be about 
fourteen, but as Temple had always written of her 
as a little girl, she had expected to see someone more 
of a child. She was very pretty, tall and slight for 
her years, holding herself well, and with a certain 
look of distinction that Mrs. Nugent was swift to ob¬ 
serve. She was as fair as an English child, with her 
bright honey-colored hair, her clear dark gray eyes, 
her smooth, pale, flawless skin. But she had the 
small well-cut features of her Latin mother, the little 
head, the tiny well-shaped hands and feet. Mrs. 
Nugent was thankful the girl was so young, otherwise 
it would have been imprudent to adopt her in this way. 
One of the boys might have fallen in love with her, 
and how disastrous that would have been, consider¬ 
ing her religion and the smallness of her fortune! 
But Michael was twenty-two now, and Rodney not 
twenty—they would hardly notice her. Rodney liked 
girls, but Michael, in his queer, studious isolation, 
seemed never to think about them at all. Rodney 
was, however, nearly always away from home; when 
not at Sandhurst he was generally staying at Wake- 
bourne with May, to whom he was very devoted. 

Then there was Countess Selvi to be interviewed, 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


15 


in her great square cream-colored palatial villa stand¬ 
ing on the wooded heights above Sant’ Elena. A 
faded blonde fussy woman with a lanky son a few 
years older than Anna. Inclined, so Mrs. Nugent 
thought, to be gushingly sentimental about Temple. 
Still, she was useful in her way, for she was so com¬ 
petent to assist in dealing with lawyers and agents, 
and she had also found some excellent, careful Ameri¬ 
can tenants for the Villa Caterina, who were pre¬ 
pared to pay a large rent for the privilege of living 
there. As long as Anna remained with her London 
relations, her own little fortune could accumulate. 
Athelstan Nugent was a rich man who could afford 
to give his ward a comfortable home and a good edu¬ 
cation. Countess Selvi had explained all this to Anna 
in order to try to overcome her obstinate dislike to the 
thought of leaving the Villa Caterina. It was very 
kind, she said, of her uncle and aunt—as they were 
called despite the fact that they were only cousins— 
to give her a home. It would be a real advantage to 
her to be educated in London for a few years. Al¬ 
though the Countess was English, it was many years 
since she had been in London, and then she had hated 
it, but she did not want to depress poor Anna still 
further, so painted it in as rosy and attractive a light 
as possible. 

Besides, she had added, it would be impossible for 
Anna to go on living at the Villa Caterina, as it was 
to be occupied, almost at once, by other people. 

“Our villa?” Anna had said. Somehow, the 
thought that strangers were coming to live there was 
very distasteful to her. She had always imagined she 
would remain there herself with old Francesca, for 
even during her father’s lifetime she had never seen 
a great deal of him. He was always very busy with 
his books, and, though he was fond of his child, she 
did not really come much into his life. That was 


16 


ANNA NUGENT 


perhaps why Anna had never imagined that the quiet, 
sudden vanishing of this absorbed and studious man 
would produce such drastic and painful consequences, 
cutting as it were her own life in two. 

Countess Selvi and Benedetto and old Francesca 
and her son Italo were all at the station to witness 
the departure of Anna with Mrs. Nugent. Anna 
looked very pale in her new mourning, but she was 
perfectly controlled, even in that difficult moment 
when she said good-bye to old Francesca, who had 
been with her since she was born and was like a 
mother to her. In fact she looked rather stunned 
and non-comprehending. The train moved off, and 
soon she and her aunt were on their way to Genoa 
and London, and the new life which in its almost 
sinister strangeness and novelty Anna Nugent secretly 
dreaded. . . . 

On the London platform, when the train drew up, 
Anna saw a tall young man coming swiftly and 
eagerly toward them. She thought he had a look of 
her father, as he approached, with his rather thin 
grave face, his dark hair and violet blue eyes. He 
kissed Mrs. Nugent, and held out his hand to Anna. 

“I’m Michael,” he said, with a sudden smile that 
lit up his face. “We’ve been looking forward to your 
coming. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been in London, 
have you? I think you’ll like it when you get used to 

He made her feel at home with his kind genial 
voice. It was that slight resemblance to her father, 
perhaps, that made him seem not quite like a 
stranger. 

“I daresay Anna’s tired,” said Mrs. Nugent. “I 
know I am. The sea was very rough, and I couldn’t 
get a private cabin. Your father ought to have re¬ 
served one.” 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


17 


‘‘There wasn’t time,” said Michael; “you see, we 
only knew for certain you were coming to-day when 
we got your wire this morning.” 

They followed him to a large, sumptuous motor¬ 
car that stood just outside the entrance to the station. 
Soon they were driving as rapidly as the congested 
traffic would permit toward the Nugents’ great house 
in Lancaster Gate. It was a mild spring day, and a 
soft mist blurred the distance. Once Anna saw an al¬ 
mond tree in full bloom, daintily pink against a gray 
and brown background. It reminded her of Italy, 
and she felt what the Italians call a “tightening of the 
heart.” 

When Anna Nugent looked back upon the Villa 
Caterina she always saw bright pink roses painted 
in almost incredible clusters against a blue sky 
and sea that were equally impossible to believe in 
when thus visualized from the great London house 
whither Mrs. Nugent had borne her off. The house 
was so high—so immensely high—and her own room 
was so nearly at the top of it, that when she looked 
out of the window her eyes were nearly on a level 
with the higher branches of the trees in the Park, that 
lay just across the broad width of road. The rumble 
of the traffic below became curiously muffled and as 
it were attenuated by distance, indeterminate too, as 
if it proceeded from sounds that were being per¬ 
petually merged into other sounds in' different keys. 
There was a kind of rough music in it, but she could 
hardly tell if the resulting clash were harmony or dis¬ 
cord. 

The pink roses and the blue sky and sea belonged 
to that happy period of her life which had just termi¬ 
nated so abruptly. It was sometimes as difficult to 
believe in the existence of that other Anna Nugent 
as to believe that the pink and blue had really hap¬ 
pened. Just like that—you could go to the window 


i8 


ANNA NUGENT 


any morning in May, and perhaps even well into June 
if the heat hadn’t set in too early, and gaze your fill 
at the pure color of it all. The mountains painted 
like pale pansies. . . . The Bay sparkling with 
points of light that looked like diamonds. . . . The 
olives made silver instead of gold, in a land where the 
sun turns most things to a pure brilliancy of gold. 
. . . The sea, and the gaily painted little boats, 
green, blue or scarlet, with oars to match. . . . The 
white butterfly sails. . . . The children shouting and 
playing on the strip of beach. Night, with the 
fireflies dancing and flashing among the Madonna 
lilies and the tall gray thickets of oleander that 
seldom began to blossom till the fireflies had disap¬ 
peared. Then the Italian voices that went by so late, 
singing, singing . . . beautiful, untrained tenors, 
easy, effective, unconscious of their own power and 
marvelous sweetness, flinging out gay, operatic airs 
to the stars, as if it were part of the people’s educa¬ 
tion to know their own operas by heart. Snatches 
of those songs used to echo in Anna’s brain long 
after she had slipped noiselessly into her appointed 
and carefully prepared place in this strange, un¬ 
familiar London house. 

Everyone was extremely kind to her. Athelstart 
Nugent welcomed her in his pleasant abrupt half- 
whimsical fashion, and felt glad that he was able to 
do something for “poor old Temple’s child.” Mrs. 
Nugent, who was always good-nature itself where 
children and young people were concerned, was de¬ 
lighted to find that Anna was so presentable. She 
had been afraid of all sorts of things—one never 
knew with foreigners! Anna, for fear of hurting her 
aunt’s feelings, had sedulously concealed from her 
her intense unwillingness to leave the Villa Caterina 
and make that long and dark journey into the un¬ 
known. But she had slipped out very early that 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


19 


morning of her departure to say good-bye to her 
flowers, the great pines, the ilex-trees, the blossoming 
wisteria. She could almost hear them telling each 
other that they were thankful they had no aunts to 
come and fetch them ruthlessly away. They were 
here forever till they died. . . . 

Michael had made friends with Anna at once, 
slightly to his mother’s astonishment, for as a rule he 
took little notice of girls of any age. But he had 
liked her from the first. Perhaps he was able to 
discern a kindred spirit lurking behind those grave 
bright gray eyes. There was something of the 
Nugent in Anna. She was charming to look at, and 
much less un-English than he had expected. She 
adapted herself without apparent difficulty to her new 
life. But there were many things she must surely 
miss, and his imagination taught him that in these 
new surroundings she must, for a time at least, in¬ 
evitably suffer from those twin miseries, loneliness 
and nostalgia. This London life would be so utterly 
different from anything she had hitherto known. He 
was determined to do all he could to help her over 
this bad, rough bit of the road. Even before he saw 
her, he had made up his mind to do this, but his 
first glimpse of that rather pale and sweet face, not 
so very immature or childlike, had made his self- 
imposed task seem all the more easy and agreeable. 

Mrs. Nugent was not blind to these efforts on the 
part of Michael. But she was inclined to wonder at 
his taking so much trouble to make Anna feel happy 
and at home. It was unlike him to notice a little girl. 
Anna was graceful, and not at all self-conscious, but 
she had nothing of the forward ease and assurance 
of the modern flapper—her Italian bringing up had 
effectually prevented that. 

It was Michael who always escorted her to church 
on Sundays, but he had never anticipated any enjoy- 


20 


ANNA NUGENT 


ment from this duty, which, for some reason never 
explained to him, had devolved upon him. When 
he returned to Oxford after Easter, Mrs. Nugent de¬ 
puted her own elderly maid, Black, to fill the vacant 
office. “Only for a few weeks,” she said, for she read 
signs of resentment and rebellion upon that faithful 
Baptist countenance. It was Michael’s last year at 
Oxford, and after that he was to go, not too willingly, 
into the office of Patton and Nugent. As the eldest 
son, it was an almost inevitable destiny, and no one 
dreamed that Michael had any secret literary ambi¬ 
tions, quite unconnected with the activities of the 
firm. 

Anna was unaware that all through that first sum¬ 
mer she spent in London, he gave up many a game 
of golf so as to be free to escort her to Mass. But 
he liked to walk through the quiet, hushed streets 
with her, and it was a pleasure to visit all the great 
London churches in her company—the Cathedral at 
Westminster; the Oratory at Brompton; the Car¬ 
melite church on Campden Hill; the Italian church 
in Hatton Garden—most homelike to her of all, and 
where she could not resist talking to some of the 
poorer and more ragged Italians as she came out; 
the Jesuit church of the Immaculate Conception at 
Farm Street, so surprisingly tucked away in the midst 
of that Mayfair mews. The order that prevailed in 
them all astonished Anna, who was accustomed to 
the Italian cathedrals and churches, where people 
picked up a chair or a prie-dieu—-if they were lucky 
enough to find either of those things—and put it 
wherever they chose. These orderly lines of benches 
and chairs, she concluded, formed part of the es¬ 
sential organization that characterized England, 
where so little was left to chance, and where the 
Countess had once informed her everything was ben 
sistemato. 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


21 


Michael knew nothing of Catholicism; his mode 
of life had never led him to trouble particularly 
about religious matters. But from the first the ex¬ 
ternals attracted him—the music, the incense, the 
mystical atmosphere, saturated with something which 
he did not quite grasp but which he supposed must 
form part of the traditional glamour of Rome. He 
liked, too, to watch his cousin’s face—such a pure, 
perfect little face in its setting of honey-colored hair, 
that hung loose and thick and wavy to her shoulders; 
he liked the grave look in her gray shining eyes, 
her demeanor at once so easy and so reverent. He 
had little experience of girls, and was in truth some¬ 
what afraid oi them. His own sister before her 
marriage had been as unlike Anna as possible. But 
there was something in this lonely child that insen¬ 
sibly attracted and interested him. 

The sermons they heard were full of perfectly 
plain dogmatic teaching. They were not, as he soon 
realized, merely the opinions and beliefs of the priest 
who was speaking. They were of sterner stuff than 
that, for behind those emphatic words lay the im¬ 
mutable, authentic teaching and authority of the 
Catholic Church. Michael listened, dreadfully afraid 
at first of being bored, as are the majority of English¬ 
men in the presence of a sermon from which they 
cannot escape, but soon becoming interesting and in¬ 
trigued by what he heard. Here was something 
about which his ignorance was complete, and he en¬ 
vied Anna’s knowledge of and familiarity with those 
ceremonies and doctrines which were still a closed 
book to him. 

“You might tell me the name of your prayer- 
book,” Michael said to her one July morning, as they 
were starting forth across the Park to go to West¬ 
minster Cathedral. They both liked the Cathedral, 


22 


ANNA NUGENT 


with its great dim spaciousness, the unearthly sweet¬ 
ness of its music. 

“It’s the Roman Missal,” said Anna. “This one 
belonged to my father—it’s in English and Latin.” 

“Do you know Latin ?” he asked. 

“Not very well, but enough to follow.” 

They were a little early, so Michael led the way 
to two chairs under some trees in order that he 
might examine the book. He was beginning to dis¬ 
like the sense of not understanding, of not being able 
to follow or quite realize what it was all about. One 
might just as well know what was going on. Anna, 
young as she was, had a thorough understanding of 
these things; her replies to his occasional questions 
were simple and lucid. Why was it he had been 
content to remain so long in ignorance of something 
which, while lying outside his own beat, was yet of 
such paramount importance to millions of people all 
over the world? 

“I can lend it to you, if you like,” she said. “I 
can follow all right without a book.” 

“Well, just for to-day, and then I must buy one 
for myself,” he said, a little reluctantly. He went on 
reading. Those beautiful prayers attracted him— 
they were at once so simple, so logical, and so sublime. 

Presently he slipped the book into his pocket, and 
they continued their walk in silence. It was very 
beautiful in the Park then, for the rhododendrons 
were not over, and made patches of vivid flame-color 
and silvery whiteness. Trees and grass were bril¬ 
liantly green, and there were wonderful flowers blos¬ 
soming in the brown earth beds. 

When they were in the Cathedral she saw Michael 
take the book from his pocket and begin to read. 
Once he turned to her questioningly, as if half 
ashamed to reveal his ignorance. But she took the 
book, found the place for him, and gave it back to 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


23 


him with a very serious beautiful look on her face. 

It was strange to her to think that these cousins 
of hers were Protestants. She had never before 
been associated with Protestants. Countess Selvi and 
Benedetto, who were her most intimate friends, were 
ardent Catholics. In Italy, old Francesca had taken 
her to Mass nearly every day of her life, for she 
invariably went to the Cathedral on her way to mar¬ 
ket to accomplish the daily spese . 

Anna said something of this to Michael on their 
way home. 

“Oh, do you miss that?” he said. “I’m sure I 
could take you sometimes on week-days if you want 
to go. But it’ll have to be early so as not to interfere 
with other things.” 

“And I like to go early best,” she answered. You 
see I’ve often wanted to do so in order to receive 
Holy Communion. We have to do that fasting, you 
know.” 

She made the suggestion timidly, for it had long 
been in her mind, and she had not liked to utter it. 
Michael’s kindness had thawed something of her 
reserve. She had begun to feel that he was a friend, 
wise, sympathetic and understanding. But it would 
perhaps be very inconvenient for him to get up early 
on purpose to take her to Mass, and she had hesi¬ 
tated before uttering the words. It was only his 
kindness that made it possible; and as she looked up 
at his thin, slightly austere face with its dark hair, 
deep violet eyes and rare smile, all fear of him left 

“But of course I’ll take you,” said Michael, 
“whenever you like—whenever you feel that you 
want to go.” 

Religion evidently meant a great deal to her, as 
he supposed that it did to all Catholics. It wasn’t 
a disagreeable duty imposed upon her by her elders; 


24 


ANNA NUGENT 


it was something that played its own supremely im¬ 
portant part in her life, something that she herself 
urgently desired and perhaps greatly loved. 

“You wouldn’t mind?” she said. 

“Mind? Of course not! I should only mind 
perhaps in the way of envying you . . . your great 
possession.” His voice held an odd constrained 
sound as if he were repressing some deep inward 
emotion that had suddenly agitated him. 

He knew now that he envied Anna, yes, and en¬ 
vied these hundreds of Catholics whom he had seen 
attending Mass that morning. They belonged, they 
were in it, they weren’t only attentive, reverent spec¬ 
tators or idle lookers-on. Some words echoed in his 
brain, teasing him with their strange reiteration: 
“Thou hast the words of Eternal Life. . . ” Those 
words had been uttered by St. Peter at a moment 
when the faith of the disciples had been put to a 
fiery test before which all Protestants avowedly 
failed. But he dimly felt that the words that had 
been spoken to Christ could be said of the Catholic 
Church to-day. Her visible strength and absolute 
unity, her central, divinely-bestowed authority had 
made its first appeal to him. 

“I meant to ask Aunt Juliet, but I wasn’t sure if 
she would understand,” said Anna. 

“Oh, I’ll explain it .all to her. You’re to be abso¬ 
lutely free, you know, to practice your religion while 
you’re with us. Your father’s will stipulated 
that, so if you ever want anything that we haven’t 
thought of giving you, you must just say so. I’m 
afraid,” and he smiled a little wryly, “that you’ll find 
us about as ignorant as any family could possibly be. 
It just hasn’t come into our lives. People in England 
are still a little bit afraid of Catholicism.” 

He thought then that a Catholic could hardly have 
found herself in surroundings where such a large 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


25 


degree of tolerance and indifference was displayed. 
The Nugents belonged to no extreme party of the 
Church of England; they went to church when they 
felt inclined, and never when they did not. They 
liked to hear good music, a famous preacher, but 
they were quite without enthusiasm. The slightest 
shower of rain sufficed to keep them from attending 
a Sunday morning service in an Anglican church. 
On the whole, their sympathies tended slightly to¬ 
ward the moderately Broad church party. It en¬ 
tailed less effort, and coincided with their own spirit 
of tolerance. It was so much more pleasant to be 
assured that there was no hell, that miracles didn’t 
happen, and that dogmas were things of the past in 
the light of modern scientific discoveries, and there¬ 
fore they chose this line of least resistance. Ritual¬ 
ism perplexed them and Evangelicalism depressed 
them, and the more liberal views expounded by a 
certain Mr. Tomlinson-Smith who frequently dined 
at Lancaster Gate constituted a via media between 
these two more stringent attitudes. 

Michael and Anna left the house early one morn¬ 
ing. Only some of the under-servants were astir, 
and they encountered a sleepy, astonished and slightly 
resentful housemaid dusting the hall. Outside, a 
fresh wind, flower-scented, blew from the Park, and 
the air was extraordinarily pure, as it is even in 
London before the busy traffic pollutes it with dust 
and odors of gasoline. 

There were not many people about on foot, but 
the heavy omnibuses were laden with workmen and 
girls going to the scene of their daily tasks. 

Michael hailed a passing taxi. He didn’t want 
Anna to walk so far fasting. They were going to 
Farm Street—he did not quite know then why she 
had expressed a preference for that church. 

It was pleasant to find themselves spinning along 


26 ANNA NUGENT 

the quiet, half-empty streets, the soft wind blowing 
in their faces. 

A strange feeling of excitement possessed Michael. 
He felt that in some obscure way he was going to 
learn through Anna something more definite about 
the Catholic Church. And the thought intrigued 
him. He wondered that she could look so calm and 
composed. She was silent and thoughtful, and he 
did not talk to her, because he felt that she must be 
silently preparing for that solemn and mystical mo¬ 
ment. 

But there were many things he would have liked 
to ask her. He would have liked to question her 
closely. There were things that from her own fruit¬ 
ful spiritual experience as a Catholic she could cer¬ 
tainly have told him. 

They entered the church. At that hour it was 
filled with a gray dusk starred by sudden golden 
patches of illumination from the numerous lamps and 
candles that burned before the altars. The gloom 
was a little thick, as if from some past smoke of 
incense, and there was a faint fragrance of incense 
still lingering there. It wasn’t a large and imposing 
church like the Oratory or Westminster Cathedral, 
but it had an atmosphere that Michael supposed 
would be called devotional. 

Anna left her books and little bag beside him on 
the bench, and he saw her go up to a confessional 
a little distance away and kneel down with her face 
bent toward the grating. For a moment he stared 
at her stupefied. He had never to his knowledge 
seen anyone in the act of going to confession before. 
But, of course, he ought to have known that was 
what she would want to do. Perhaps it was the 
first time she had had the opportunity since coming 
to London. She seemed timid about asking for any¬ 
thing, was afraid of giving trouble or inconveniencing 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 


27 


someone. And certainly no one would ever have 
thought of suggesting such a thing as this to Anna. 
She was free to practice her religion, but she had 
to look after herself in the matter. There was no 
one in the house to advise or counsel her, or to see 
that she punctually discharged her religious duties. 
Yes, she was left to herself—this child of fourteen! 
Surely she must need guidance. All at once he 
thought of her spiritual solitude and isolation with 
something of terror. He felt that he wanted to 
remedy it. He thought of her—the only Catholic 
in that great house. Dependent, too, almost wholly 
upon himself to help her in the matter. If she hadn’t 
been devout, he could imagine that coming to them 
at such a critical age, finding herself thus alone and 
without guidance, she might have drifted away alto¬ 
gether. 

And now, at the first opportunity, she had quietly 
gone to confession. He hadn’t somehow connected 
her with that part of it. He knew, of course, that 
Catholics were bound to approach that sacrament 
and seek the pardon and absolution that it could 
bestow. But how could she go like that—so simply, 
so unself-consciously, so as a matter of course? He 
could not see her now. She had gone to the side 
of the confessional that was farthest away from him. 
She was lost in the shadows. 

All of a sudden he had that feeling of violent 
repugnance which many people experience when they 
first closely envisage the sacrament of Penance. And 
it seemed to him unjustifiable, an infringement of 
individual rights. . . . That was why, perhaps, the 
Catholic Church had sometimes been called the enemy 
of liberty. She claimed this peculiar ascendancy over 
men, so that they had to reveal to her the evil thoughts 
of their hearts, their idle words, their sins of the 
flesh, their failures, their rebellion against the laws 


28 


ANNA NUGENT 


of Almighty God. And as he meditated upon this 
aspect of the Church he said to himself: “I couldn’t 
do that. No Englishman could.” It didn’t seem 
fair or just that men should be compelled to submit 
to such personal humiliation in order to obtain from 
the Church her great and transcendent spiritual gifts. 

And then he saw Anna approaching, returning to 
her seat. Her face was not very clearly visible under 
the cloche-shaped hat she was wearing, but just before 
she knelt down she turned to him and smiled—almost 
gratefully, he thought. She looked very calm and 
happy and quite beautiful. He had never before 
been so struck with the spiritual quality of her beauty. 
She was little more than a child, but in some ways 
she was extraordinarily mature. And it was her 
religion that had given her this wisdom, this maturity. 

She was kneeling now, her face hidden in her 
hands. . . . 

For Anna, with her little tale of innocent sins, 
the confessional might be all right. For children— 
yes, he could imagine it as being a salutary and 
wholesome process for many children. But for older 
people it was surely an insupportable discipline. 
Most grown men and women, even the best of them, 
had something in their lives of which they were 
ashamed and which they would prefer not to reveal. 
Even if they had escaped the grosser sins there must 
be at least some act of meanness, of lying, of coward¬ 
ice or jealousy, of cruelty or anger, that had left, 
as it were, a smudge upon the soul. Michael passed 
hastily in review his own boyhood, his school and 
college days. It was terrible—even this rehearsal, 
this voluntary examination of conscience revealing- 
in a flash just where he had failed. Were these 
sins—trifling in many people’s eyes—still staining his 
soul? Wasn’t a deep heartfelt repentance sufficient? 
For others, perhaps, but not for the children of the 


THE NUGENT FAMILY 29 

Church. She imposed upon them this formality with 
all its subtle humiliation. Only at the hour of death, 
if no priestly help or ghostly counsel was at hand, 
a fervent act of contrition was held to suffice. He 
realized then that if he ever determined to become 
! a Catholic—and lately he had often found himself 
toying with the idea-^he would have to go as Anna 
had just gone and reveal those shortcomings, those 
intimate failures, to a priest in the confessional. And 
then they would be forgiven. 

He thought—as many non-Catholics have thought 
—that that would be too high a price to pay. . . . 

He knelt during the Mass that followed, but all 
the time his mind was persecuted with these thoughts. 
He felt disturbed and restless. If it had not been 
his duty to take Anna home, he would certainly have 
left the church. The very atmosphere deepened his 
suffering. He seemed to be looking across a dark 
gulf to some strangely-shining light. 

And presently Anna rose again, left his side, and 
with folded hands went up to the altar rail. 

That stabbed him afresh. He wanted passionately 
to receive the Blessed Sacrament in Holy Com¬ 
munion. He was not one of those who refused to 
accept those terrible and awe-inspiring, yet divinely 
sweet words—the Words of Eternal Life. Was he 
a coward, then, that he could not face that dark 
gulf and make the required payment? Men, women 
and little children were crowding up to the altar 
now. All these had paid their debt. And at that 
moment his own isolation and detachment seemed to 
him insupportable. 

His face as they drove home was rigid and set, 
and Anna was afraid that he was bored at being 
dragged out so early. She little guessed the storm 
of emotion that was overwhelming him. 


30 


ANNA NUGENT 


When they entered the dining-room, Athelstan and 
his wife were already seated at breakfast 

“Been out?” asked Mrs. Nugent. 

“Yes. I took Anna to church. I hope we’re not 
late—we drove back.” 

“Oh, no, you’re not late,” said Mrs. Nugent, be¬ 
ginning to pour out coffee for them both. She looked 
at Michael rather curiously. He was not looking 
quite himself this morning. Perhaps he hadn’t 
wanted to get up so early. 

After breakfast, when Anna had gone upstairs, 
she said to him: 

“You mustn’t let dear little Anna make a slave of 
you. But in any case it won’t be for very long. 
When we return from Scotland I’ve got a nice young 
Catholic governess coming. She’ll see to all that. 
Her name is Miss Lawton, and Mrs. Phipps-Moxon 
tells me she is really quite an exceptional person.”^ 

Michael felt a little disappointed to hear this. 
He supposed that when this Miss Lawton came he 
wouldn’t be wanted to take Anna to Mass any more. 
Of course, he could always go alone. But he felt 
he should miss having that quiet devout little figure 
kneeling near him, so strangely absorbed and recol¬ 
lected. 


CHAPTER II 


THE COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 


I 


NNA’S previous experience of governesses had 
been restricted to vociferous and voluble Italian 



ladies who had taught her to read and write their 
language, and do a little simple arithmetic. Later 
on, as she grew older, this had been supplemented 
by a certain amount of geography, and the history 
of Ancient Rome. She had also read the whole of 
the Divina Commedia with explanatory text. 

Miss Lawton, fresh from Oxford, and awaiting a 
suitable post, came to the Nugents’ house in Lan¬ 
caster Gate that autumn to continue the work begun 
by those well-intentioned ladies. After a few days’ 
practical experience in her new job, she declared 
that she hadn’t believed it was possible for a girl of 
fourteen to be as ignorant as Anna was. 

Gay Lawton had never been ignorant; her eldest 
brother had seen to that. She had been the only girl 
in a family of brilliant sons, and she was naturally 
almost as clever as they were. They were poor, and 
had early been taught that they had nothing to look 
to in the future but their own exertions. They had 
discovered the truth of this ominous warning on the 
death of their parents within a few months of each 
other. 

Anna took to Miss Lawton at once. She was a 


32 


ANNA NUGENT 


big girl with a boyish, rather slouching, thin figure, 
a small dark face with bright keen brown eyes, smooth 
black hair, and a very decided manner. 

“Very independent,” Mrs. Nugent had murmured 
after their first interview. She had never had any¬ 
thing to do with modern highly-educated women who 
worked for their living just as their brothers did. 
Gay was twenty-two and looked more; she gave one 
the idea of being almost fantastically competent and 
efficient. Mrs. Nugent formed a vague, unspoken 
wish that she had been less good-looking. The 
mutual friend—Mrs. Phipps-Moxon—who had rec¬ 
ommended her had never alluded to that detri¬ 
mental fact. Mrs. Nugent was always nervous lest 
one of her sons should fall in love with someone 
quite “impossible.” 

During the following year Michael left Oxford 
and settled down to work in the city in the offices 
of Patton and Nugent. He had grown up with 
this goal before his eyes, but it had never seemed to 
him at all a desirable or attractive one. He almost 
envied Rodney, who was now in the Army and sta¬ 
tioned at Aldershot with the prospect of going to 
India in the autumn. Not that Michael had any 
wish for a military career; his one year in the trenches 
had given him a very profound distaste for anything 
of the kind. But it would have meant a change of 
scene, a glimpse of a wider, freer life than London 
could offer. Besides, he hated business. He wanted 
to write, and now he would have no time to do so. 
His youth, his young fresh years, were to be sacrificed 
to Patton and Nugent’s. It was characteristic of 
Michael that he kept these rebellious, subversive 
thoughts to himself, just as he was careful never to 
reveal his secret ambition to anyone. He did not 
even tell Anna, though once or twice he had toyed 
with the idea of doing so. She was such a sweet, 


COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 33 

sympathetic little companion, still almost a child and 
yet with something or a woman's wisdom. . . . 

He tried to console himself with the thought that 
it would certainly mean he would be a rich man in 
the future. In a few years he would probably be 
a partner, and eventually he would inherit his father’s 
position. Some day he would be able to marry, and 
have at least as large and opulent a house as the 
one in Lancaster Gate, even if his income didn’t run 
to a charming country property as well. It was 
strange that with all these advantages Michael 
Nugent should always contemplate his future with a 
sense of dismayed frustration. It wasn’t going to 
give him what he asked for—what his year of serving 
his country had made him feel he had a right to 
ask for. He would look back upon a strenuous day’s 
work and ask himself if it were really worth while. 
Of course, money was useful, but many other things 
were far more beautiful and desirable. He could 
not picture himself as so obviously contented and 
happy as his father was, in precisely similar circum¬ 
stances. And fate seemed to be leading him by the 
nose toward a life that would certainly resemble his 
father’s in every particular. 

Anna was more than fifteen now. She was grow¬ 
ing tall, though not nearly so tall as Gay, and she 
was lanky rather than awkward at Page ingrat. She 
always looked charming, and Mrs. Nugent was par¬ 
ticular about her clothes, and saw that her frocks 
and hats were replenished as need required, so that 
she was never shabby, as she had been in the old 
days of Francesca’s economical rule. In term time 
she was continually with Gay Lawton, though even 
now Michael often made an excuse for accompanying 
her to Mass. The two girls were now intimate 
friends. Anna was ignorant still, but no longer so 


34 


ANNA NUGENT 


woefully ignorant; when a subject interested her she 
learnt it with avidity. She was always grateful to 
Gay in after years for disclosing to her the wide 
and beautiful field of English literature. Especially 
poetry. ... It seemed to her almost incredible that 
one land should have produced in every age such an 
extraordinary wealth of poetry. Even to-day, for 
Gay introduced her to a host of living poets, some 
of whose names, she declared, would always be re¬ 
membered. “We’ve no right to neglect contemporary 
thought,” she used to say. 

And Anna read the Divina Commedia with Gay, 
who—she was astonished to find—had never read, it, 
scarcely realizing that, in her turn, she was teaching 
her Italian, for it was Anna who read it with her 
pure, pretty accent, and Gay who followed each canto 
in English and read the arguments and explanations 
aloud. 

Anna felt that Gay had opened the door into a 
new world for her. She developed something of her 
father’s love for books. And it was lovely to find 
that Michael cared for them passionately, too. It 
made a bond of sympathy between them. She often 
discussed with him what she had been reading with 
Gay. 

One day, when they were walking across to the 
Cathedral at an hour which Gay considered inhu¬ 
manly early, he made a confession to Anna. 

“When I was at Oxford I made up my mind I’d 
write. But going into the firm has knocked that on 
the head.” 

“Oh, couldn’t you choose?” 

He shook his head. “I thought I should be able 
to, all that year of the War—if I came out alive. 
But as soon as I got back I saw it was impossible. 
It’ll relieve Dad of a lot of work if I’m there. So I 
didn’t say anything.” 


COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 35 


“Perhaps some day you’ll have time,” she said, 
suddenly pitying him. 

“Not likely. I’m dog-tired when I get home at 
night. . . .” 

And they continued their walk in silence. 

2 

Mrs. Nugent had a sharp attack of influenza that 
winter, and her illness synchronized with Rodney’s 
arrival on leave. He was to go to India early in 
the new year, and would be away some time. They 
were all sorry that the house should be so dismal, 
for it was an unwritten tradition that Rodney, when 
he was at home, should be amused and pampered as 
much as possible. He hadn’t wanted to come, either. 
He had wanted to spend his last weeks in England 
with May at Wakebourne, where he could have had 
some hunting. He was rather sulky when he arrived, 
because his father had insisted that he should spend 
Christmas with them in Lancaster Gate. 

Gay had remained there all through the Christmas 
holidays. Anna had begged that she might be al¬ 
lowed to do so, having ascertained that she had 
nowhere to go. She was trying, too, to obtain a 
big post in a girls’ college in one of the colonies, so 
it was rather necessary that she should be on the spot 
to interview people. 

After a few days, Rodney formed the habit of 
coming up to the schoolroom, which was on the fourth 
floor. Sometimes he would say carelessly to Anna, 
“You can go and do your prep in your own room, 
can’t you, Anna?”—and she went away feeling that 
he wished to get rid of her. She was just a little 
jealous because Gay was so friendly to him. 

“Decent kid, that,” she heard him murmur once 
before she was well out of the room; “knows when 
she isn’t wanted. May would never have gone,” 


36 


ANNA NUGENT 


Although the holidays had begun, Gay made her 
do a few hours’ lessons every day. The weather 
was bad, and as a rule Anna was glad of the occu¬ 
pation. The lessons, too, consisted of reading a 
number of interesting books, the history of special 
periods, the lives of eminent authors, and some of 
Shakespeare’s plays. 

She had not been very long in her room one eve¬ 
ning, when Gay tapped at the door and called her, 
“Anna—Anna!” in a low voice, as if she did not 
want anyone else to hear. 

“Come in,” said Anna, rising. 

,Gay came into the room. Her face was flushed 
as if she had scorched it at the fire, her eyes were 
very bright; they had the furtive quick glance of a 
bird’s. 

“You can come back, Anna,” she said, Rodney’s 
gone.” 

It was the first time Anna had ever heard her 
call him Rodney, and the little fact struck her almost 
forcibly. She wondered innocently what secret there 
was between them. 

Gay and Anna had supper in the schoolroom, but 
they nearly always went down to the drawing-room 
later in the evening. That night they found May 
there. She was dressed in a wonderful dress of 
green and silver, and with her beautiful hair, that 
was nearly as golden as ripe corn, she looked strik¬ 
ingly beautiful. Rodney was not there; perhaps he 
was smoking with his father. Presently he was to 
go with May to a dance. 

“Well, child,” said May, looking up as they came 
in, “how are you getting on with your lessons?” 
She was not really interested in Anna’s lessons and 
disliked having to talk to her and Gay, but she knew 
that they were waiting for her to speak. 

Pefore Anna could answer Gay had struck in with, 


37 


COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 

“Oh, Anna’s all right. We’re working in the holi¬ 
days, too, to make up for lost time.” 

When she spoke to May her manner was so cool 
it was scarcely civil. Anna could feel the unspoken 
antagonism between the two women. She wondered 
if May knew about Gay’s friendship with Rodney 
and of his frequent visits to the schoolroom. 

“You’re looking out for a new post, Mamma tells 
me,” May said, turning to Gay. 

“Yes, but I don’t suppose I shall get it. It’s 
against one being a Catholic,” said Gay, with a touch 
of bitterness. 

May said loftily, “Mamma’s reference will be very 
valuable to you. She’s so very pleased at all you’ve 
done for Anna.” 

“Ready, May darling?” said Rodney, coming into 
the room. When his eye fell upon Gay and Anna, 
he stopped short and looked a trifle confused and 
shamefaced. 

“Oh, is it time to go to this boring old show?” 
said May, rising languidly. She stood near Rodney 
under the Venetian chandelier. They were very 
much alike, tall, fair and very good-looking. Gay 
had risen, too, and glanced a little enviously at them. 
May’s dress was perfect, and it hung so gracefully 
upon her slender figure. She was wearing wonderful 
jewels, and she looked like a young queen. Rodney 
put his arm about her. 

“You look simply top-hole to-night,” he told her. 
“Ching-Chang ought to be here to see you.” 

He always called his brother-in-law “Ching- 
Chang.” . 6 

May only said: “Oh, it’s dismal going to dances 
with one’s husband. And Ching won’t even learn to 
dance.” 

They said good-night to Anna and Gay and went 
downstairs together, laughing and talking as they 


38 


ANNA NUGENT 


went. In the hall, May stopped and said: “What 
a great, untidy girl Miss Lawton is! I wonder 
Mamma engaged her.” ' , 

They went out into the car that was awaiting them. 
Rodney was relieved to feel that her comment called 
for no reply. He sincerely hoped that Anna wasn t 
a little chatterbox; his friendship with Gay would 
certainly not be smiled upon by his mother and 
sister. . . . 

3 

When Mrs. Nugent was better, Rodney came up 
less and less to the schoolroom. Often he was out 
with May; they were almost inseparable now when 
she stayed at her old home. But she would soon 
be leaving for Devonshire, with trunks and trunks 
filled with toys for her children’s Christmas tree. 
She was staying a little longer than usual this year, 
so as to be with Rodney. # 

One evening, about a week before Christmas, Rod¬ 
ney strolled into the schoolroom where Gay and 
Anna were reading by the fire. His fair, arrogant 
face wore a frowning, perturbed look. 

“Send that kid away,” he said petulantly. 

Gay looked up but never moved from her seat. 
She answered coolly: “She’s got to stay here.^ While 
she has this cold, Mrs. Nugent says she isn’t to sit 
in her room.” 

This order was two days old, and had filled Gay 
with a certain misgiving; she was almost afraid that 
the reason given wasn’t the true one. The servants 
might have seen Rodney climbing the stairs with his 
swift long strides. Everything they saw was duly 
reported to Black. 

“Beastly nuisance,” grumbled Rodney.^ 

Anna got up and went over to the window seat, 
which was low and wide. She sat with one shoulder 


COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 39 


towards the two figures sitting opposite to each other 
in arm-chairs by the fire. A curtain half hid her. 
They talked in low tones, and Anna tried not to 
listen. She was preparing a history lesson. But to¬ 
night the subject failed to absorb her. The battles, 
the fierce quarrels, the love-affairs of old and dead 
kings could not win her attention from those two 
tragic-looking young people, both, in her eyes, so 
beautiful. 

Gay’s pert, pretty little face, with its upturned eyes 
and nose and down-turned discontented little mouth, 
looked oddly grave. Suddenly Rodney’s hand shot 
out and seized hers. 

“Look here—I can’t stand this any more! I 
simply must tell them!” 

Her face quivered. “Don’t be an ass, Rodney,” 
she said. 

“Why, what difference can it make? What can 
they do?” 

“Nothing to you, of course. But they can chuck 
me out, and that doesn’t happen to be convenient to 
me just now. Try to think of my point of view.” 

Anna loved Gay, who had a kind, elder-sisterly 
way with her, humorously affectionate. Now, over¬ 
hearing some of her speech, she felt that she didn’t 
want her to be “chucked out.” And what was it 
that Rodney was so anxious to tell them? 

Then suddenly in the big glass that hung on the 
opposite wall at the end of the room, she saw a 
strange little tableau. While she watched it as though 
her eyes were riveted to the scene, she felt all the 
time that it was utterly unreal, that it: hadn’t hap¬ 
pened. She saw Rodney hold out his arms as if 
utterly forgetful of her presence. . . . And Gay got 
up from her chair and slowly, slowly, went toward 
him as if she couldn’t help herself. The arms were 
round her now, she bent her head till it was hidden 


4 o 


ANNA NUGENT 


on his shoulder; their two faces were pressed to¬ 
gether. Anna thought that she heard the faint sound 
of a sob. ... 

But she couldn’t bear any more. She stole noise¬ 
lessly from the room, convinced that they were un¬ 
aware of her going. 

When she reached her own room at the end of 
the passage, she found that she was trembling. Her 
knees shook under her. She felt an overmastering 
excitement. She caught sight of her face in a mirror 
and saw that she was very pale. 

She hoped that Aunt Juliet wouldn’t question her. 

In imagination she saw Gay eternally getting up 
and going towards Rodney’s outstretched arms like 
one hypnotized, as a needle goes towards a magnet, 
impelled by some irresistible, invisible force. 

It was cold in her room. The fire had not yet 
been lit. She went across to the window, for her 
face was burning, and pressed it against the pane. 
The window was open a little at the top. Mrs. 
Nugent had given the order for this when Anna 
first came, and though the Italian-bred child caught 
cold after cold and nearly suffocated on foggy nights, 
this hygienic rule had never been rescinded. But 
to-night there was no fog. It was one of those clear, 
breathless, frosty winter nights when the stars burn 
like pale fire. The air was ice-cold and very still. 
The trees in the Park were like masses of amorphous 
darkness against the sky, their little lace edges were 
scarcely discernible. Far below, the traffic rumbled, 
and the shrill horn of a motor-car sounded its im¬ 
perative warning note. 

Anna looked out. She wasn’t thinking now of 
Gay and Rodney. She was thinking, in unchildish 
fashion, of the great city lying, as it were, at her feet, 
spreading its endless streets and roads and squares 
for miles and miles over the brown earth. And in 


COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 41 

those miles and miles of streets, some broad and 
opulent, some poor and mean, some so harrow that 
they seemed to shrink out of sight as if ashamed 
of their naked, shameful poverty, there were millions 
and millions of people, old, middle-aged, young, 
babies. They seemed to Anna then like a great army. 
Some were happy with glowing eyes . . . like Gay 
and Rodney. Some were crying, some suffering, some 
hard at work and very tired. The only thing that 
held them all together was this common bond of 
citizenship. 

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. She 
turned sharply, expecting to see Gay. But it was 
Rodney who appeared, in response to her quivering 
“Come in!” 

“Ugh! How cold! Why didn’t you ask to have 
your fire lit?” 

He advanced toward her, his blue eyes shining. All 
the three Nugents had blue eyes, but while Michael’s 
were dark, almost violet, Rodney’s were of a clear, 
penetrating light blue. 

“I suppose you heard what Gay and I were say¬ 
ing?” he inquired, looking down at her. 

“Yes,” said Anna. She added, as if in self-excul¬ 
pation: “I tried not to.” 

“Well, you mustn’t let anyone know you know,” 
said Rodney. 

“They won’t ask me, will they?” 

“Well, I hope not. But if they do, you mustn’t 
say you saw me in the schoolroom.” 

Anna was silent. Supposing Aunt Juliet were to 
question her in that sleepy, indolent way of hers? 
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, lie to Aunt Juliet even to save 
Gay; she had the feeling, too, that such a process 
would be futile. 

“You see, you would get us into no end of a row. 
And Gay would have to go.” 


42 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Go?” 

“Yes. You see, we—Gay and I—care for each 
other. We want to get married. And she’s a 
Catholic.” 

‘‘So am I,” said Anna, not quite understanding 
him. 

“Well, it’s jolly hard on Protestants when they 
want to marry Catholics!” 

Anna pondered over this. 

“You might become a Catholic?” she suggested. . 

“I? Not quite!” said Rodney. 

There was a brief silence. The room seemed very 
hushed and cold. 

“We shall have to wait. It’ll be rotten—going 
out to India—leaving Gay.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Anna. “I like Gay, too.” 

His face broke into a smile. “Yes, she’s wonder¬ 
ful, isn’t she? Well, Anna, don’t give us away, that s 
all. I always said you were a decent kid. Michael 
thinks so too.” He pulled her awkwardly toward 
him and kissed her forehead. Then he went out 
of the room, and she could hear him going down 
the stairs, two or three at a time, as he always did, 
with the eager agility of a young animal. 

4 

Anna smoothed her hair and went along the pass¬ 
age, back to the schoolroom. It was in darkness, and 
deserted. The fire was nearly out. Gay wasn’t 
there. Anna switched on the electric light, and such 
was the force of habit that she resumed her history 
lesson at the very place where she had been so 
strangely interrupted, concentrating upon her task as 
if such people as Rodney and Gay didn’t exist. 

Presently the supper was brought in and shortly 
afterward Gay appeared. Her head was thrown 


COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 43 


back, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She looked 
defiant and miserable. Anna felt that she was see¬ 
ing her for the first time, and that it was under a 
tragic aspect which she had never before associated 
with her. Why weren’t they happy—since they 
loved each other? What was this nebulous thing 
they both feared? 

There was something very charming about Gay, 
with her bright dark eyes, her deep husky voice, her 
tall lank figure. 

Generally they talked during supper, but to-night 
Gay was silent. Perhaps she was thinking of Rodney, 
dining now with his parents in the big paneled room 
downstairs. It seemed rather hard on them both 
that they should be so separated. ... It was always 
dull in the dining-room unless there w 7 ere guests, and 
to-night there would only be May, because Mrs. 
Nugent wasn’t well enough to receive people as yet. 
Both Michael and Rodney avoided dining at home as 
much as possible; they often went to their club to¬ 
gether. They were on friendly though not on inti¬ 
mate terms. All the intimacy was_ between May and 
Rodney; theirs was a close, firm friendship. 

Gay looked up suddenly and said: 

“I shall look out for something else if I don’t get 
this colonial job. I simply can’t stay here. Rodney 
and I feel like—thieves.” . , 

“Are you afraid Aunt Juliet will find out? asked 
Anna, solemnly. 

“Find out? What is there for her to find out.^ 

“About you and Rodney wanting to be married.” 

In her heart she felt a sudden, odd feeling of relief 
that it was Rodney and not Michael, little as she 
was able to understand anyone preferring the younger 
brother to the elder. 

“If she hasn’t found out already, said Gay, biting 
her lip nervously. 


44 


ANNA NUGENT 


Anna went on with her supper. The thought of 
Aunt Juliet made her nervous. She felt that she had 
never really seen her fully awake, and she dreaded 
to confront her aroused from her habitual indolent 
somnolence. She hoped that she wouldn’t come up 
and question her. 

They had finished supper, and one of the servants 
had come to clear it away in the swift and noiseless 
manner of the well-trained English domestic. The 
two girls went back to their old places by the fire. 
Gay was reading a novel, a little inattentively, to 
judge by the way in which she constantly looked at 
the clock and then towards the door as if she were 
expecting someone. Anna was conscious of this 
scarcely disguised restlessness, and it affected her also. 
She could not concentrate upon the book she was 
reading. Did Gay feel, too, as if something un¬ 
toward were about to happen? Anna’s nerves were 
a little on edge after the excitement of the evening, 
and she was startled when the door opened suddenly 
and May Chingford came into the room. 

She was dressed to go out, in a long ermine cloak 
with a big collar of fluffy white fur. The cloak had 
slipped back from her shoulders, disclosing a dress 
of rose-pink, scantily and slenderly made. The 
skirt was short and revealed her slim ankles and tiny 
satin-shod feet. Diamonds gleamed at her throat 
and in her hair. 

Anna hardly knew her beautiful cousin. Secretly, 
in her heart, she cherished a kind of childish worship 
for her, but it made her silent and very still in her 
presence, as if she were afraid of attracting her atten¬ 
tion. She was ashamed of the feeling, and afraid 
that May would somehow discover it and laugh at 
her. She stood up now, with flushed cheeks and 
downcast eyes, looking like a guilty child. 

May bestowed a swift, humorous glance upon 


COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 45 

her. “Well, my child, don’t look so scared; I’m not 
going to eat you! But it’s Miss Lawton who has 
got to be eaten.” She turned to Gay, and, though 
she was still smiling, there was something almost 
terribly powerful in her aspect. The power of Lady 
Chingford, beautiful and assured, over Gay Lawton. 
“Rodney’s let it all out. He’s never had a secret 
from me in his life. Mamma hates scenes, as you 
know, and just now they’re bad for her heart. So 
I promised to act as deputy.” Her blue eyes were 
hard and bright, and behind her ironic manner one 
detected anger. . . . “Well, Miss Lawton, you 
knew you were taking risks, and Rodney isn’t even of 
age! Mrs. Phipps-Moxon told me that when she 
recommended you to Mamma she especially warned 
you against flirting with the dear, darling boys!” 

Gay stood there very still. Not a muscle of her 
face moved. She hardly looked at Lady Chingford. 
Anna trembled violently. There was to her some¬ 
thing almost terrible in the little scene. Her idol 
seemed to have suddenly lost something of its peer¬ 
less, flawless whiteness. It was as if she had realized 
that it was a thing of marble, hard and brilliant and 
beautiful, but not made of flesh and blood. May 
was hurting Gay. And Gay stood there, bearing the 
blows without flinching, without crying out. Per¬ 
haps May didn’t know how much she was hurting her. 
Perhaps she didn’t realize that she was a penniless 
girl, without a home, without a father or a mother, 
completely dependent, too, upon her own exertions 
for her bread. Just for those reasons Anna felt that 
May should have been more kind, more considerate. 
Even if Gay had done wrong in loving Rodney. . . . 

“Well, you’ll have to go, Miss Lawton. To¬ 
morrow morning as ever is. Rodney’s coming back 
home with me—we think after all, he’ll be safer in 
Devonshire. I hope this will be a lesson to you for 


ANNA NUGENT 


4 6 

another time. It was absolutely foolish of you to 
try and catch poor Rodney. And Anna, what do you 
know about it, you sly little puss?” She went up to 
the girl, put her hand under her chin and lifted her 
face sharply so that the light fell full upon it. There 
was something cruel in the little action and Anna s 
eyes filled with tears. “You want a whipping for 
not telling Mamma what was going on. Weil, good¬ 
night, both of you. You must be out of the house be¬ 
fore ten o’clock to-morrow morning, Miss Lawton. 
Whatever’s owing to you shall be sent up to your 
room.” # 

She went out of the room, swishing her silken 
skirts. She was almost exaggeratedly thin, and in her 
scanty short skirts she looked like a young girl. 

Anna felt a violent revulsion; she almost hated 
May. How could people be so deliberately cruel? It 
hardly seemed possible that one could pass, as Anna 
felt she had done, in the space of a few minutes from 
a shy worshiping love to a black anger that seemed 
almost like hatred. To see Gay hurt like that—Gay, 
so proud, so immovable, so silent—had made Anna 
feel wicked. 

Gay was standing near the mantelpiece, her face 
averted. Anna went timidly up to her and laid her 
hand on her arm with a vague desire to comfort her, 

,to assure her at least of her sympathy. “Gay-” 

she said. 

“Oh, leave me alone, you little fool!” said Gay, 
angrily, pushing her away. Her cheeks were flaming 
now, and the tears stung her eyes. 

To-morrow—at ten o’clock. . . . Where on earth 
was she to go to? Mrs. Nugent wouldn’t be likely 
to give her a reference now. She had been there 
nearly fifteen months—all wasted time. . . . And it 
was Rodney himself who had betrayed their secret, 



COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 47 

She might have known he would blurt it all out to the 
sister he so adored. 

Anna stole back to her seat. The sharp words, 
the impatient gesture, had not disconcerted her. Child 
as she was, she knew they were not only, or even 
principally, directed against herself. They all formed 
part of this incredible little drama of which she had 
been an unwilling but deeply interested witness. She 
reflected that she knew more about it than anyone, ex¬ 
cept the two principal actors who were both, so she 
imagined, in such disgrace. Suppose even now they 
were to question her to discover the extent of her 
knowledge? May had seemed to take it for granted 
that she was somehow an accessory. . . . 

Gay sat down near the table and leaned her elbows 
upon it. She made a cup for her face with her long 
slim hands. When she looked up at last, Anna saw 
that the angry flush had died away, leaving her face 
cold and pale. 

“I shan’t know where to go,” she said, helplessly, 
almost like a child confronted with sudden homeless¬ 
ness. “You see I haven’t anyone in England and 
I’d counted on staying here till I could get something 
permanent.” 

“You could go to a hotel,” suggested Anna. 

From her childish experience of Italy she knew 
that hotels were invariably ready to receive the home¬ 
less. 

Gay laughed rather bitterly. 

“Hotels cost money, my child.” 

It meant, then, what she had always suspected, that 
Gay was really poor. Anna thought of her money¬ 
box upstairs, her Savings Bank book into which 
sums of one pound and upwards were faithfully 
lodged. She never had much money, but “tips” on 
birthdays and at Christmas were always forthcom- 


ANNA NUGENT 


48 

ing. Once Michael had given her a pound—she had 
put that carefully away into the money-box, hoping 
that she might never be obliged to spend anything so 
precious. There were some loose shillings besides, 
but the gold sovereign was the only one she had ever 
seen, and it was Michael’s gift too, so that it was a 
treasure. With an effort she resolved to give it to 
Gay. Braving a second rebuff she approached her 
again. 

‘Tve got about two pounds in my room,” she 
said. “I’d like you to have it.” In her heart there 
was a childish desire to make amends for May’s 
cruelty. 

Gay looked at her, put out her hand and drew 
Anna to her. 

“Rodney was right,” she said steadily; “you’re a 
jolly decent little kid. I’m sorry to go away from 
you.” She touched Anna’s white forehead with her 
lips. “But I can’t take your money, Baby.” 

She rose, shook herself and laughed. Her momen¬ 
tary collapse was over; she was once more her bright, 
hard, courageous self. 

“Come and help me pack,” she said. 

Anna followed her into her bedroom, which was 
opposite her own. Gay’s wardrobe, for all that her 
appearance was so invariably neat, was scanty. None 
of the dresses she now proceeded to fold carefully 
looked new. The blouses were clean and fresh, and 
everything was well cared for. Gay had few pos¬ 
sessions beyond her personal things, just a few books 
and some writing materials. Her small trunk and 
suit-case were soon packed. 

“Not much, is it?” she said; “but people don’t like 
it if you come with big trunks. You’d soon find that 
out if you ever tried to teach.” 

She was cheerful in the midst of adversity—per¬ 
haps she still hoped that Rody. . „ . But no; his 


COMING AND GOING OF GAY LAWTON 49 

readiness to depart with May on the morrow showed 
at least a not too great unwillingness to be rescued 
from a situation that promised such complications. 

“I wonder what I shall do?” 

Anna, secretly admiring her pluck, her invincible 
grit, said hastily: “Oh, as soon as I’m grown up I 
mean to go back to Sant’ Elena to the Villa Caterina. 
It’s mine, you know—they’ve let it till I’m old enough 
to live there. Wouldn’t it be lovely to be there to¬ 
gether, Gay, just you and I?” 

“It’s a very pretty castle in the air, but you’re only 
fifteen, Anna, and that isn’t much use to us now.” 

“Perhaps you’ll marry Rodney. . . .” 

“Perhaps I shan’t.” Instantly her face grew hard. 
She had been in the Nugents’ house quite long 
enough to realize how completely May governed and 
ruled Rodney. He was as wax in her hands. And 
May, so to speak, had turned her thumbs down. Gay 
was to be sacrificed, and it didn’t really matter what 
became of her, so long as she was safely removed 
from his vicinity. 

“You must go to bed now, Anna,” she said. “It’s 
long past ten. I think we’ll say good-bye now—I 
shall go off as early as possible, and I hate saying 
good-bye.” 

She took Anna’s face in her two cold little hands 
and kissed her lightly, deliberately, several times. 

Anna said slowly, “I love you, Gay.” She wanted 
Gay to know how dreadfully sorry she was. 

And Gay did not laugh, as Anna had been half 
afraid she would. Instead she stooped and repeated 
the embrace. 


CHAPTER III 

EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 

I 

T HIS episo'de marked an epoch in the child’s de¬ 
velopment. It startled her out of the lassitude 
that had come upon her in England, amid circum¬ 
stances at once so strange and unfamiliar. During 
that first year in Lancaster Gate she had sometimes 
felt like a little machine that rose at a certain hour, 
breakfasted, worked at a number of bewildering 
lessons for which she felt she had no aptitude, ate 
meals at fixed intervals, walked out, and attended 
classes in dancing and drawing. She had adapted 
herself to it all with many an interior struggle but 
with no evidence of rebellion. She was just caught 
up into the limitless regularity of a thoroughly well- 
organized English household. And the very fact of 
leaving her beloved Italian home had numbed her. 
It did not seem to matter much what the new life 
held for her since it could no longer hold Sant’ Elena 
and the Villa Caterina. Anna had always been 
docile; her disposition was sweet and yielding, and 
she had submitted to the strict unvarying regime, in¬ 
cluding the total lack of freedom and solitude, with¬ 
out remonstrance. Her one great pleasure had been 
to go to Mass with Michael, to discuss her Faith with 
him afterward, since he was such an eager, sympa¬ 
thetic listener, and to talk to him about Italy and old 
Francesca, and Countess Selvi and her son. 

5 ° 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 


Si 


Gay’s coming had changed that, since it was really 
part of her duty to escort Anna to Mass, and thq 
girl had seen less of Michael in consequence. But 
there was much in Gay’s companionship to compen¬ 
sate for this loss. Lessons with her seemed to shed 
their bewildering perplexity. And Anna had learned 
to love this bright, charming girl who might have 
been her elder sister. Brilliant, courageous and im¬ 
pulsive, Gay stood for something that Anna could ad¬ 
mire and appreciate because it was so utterly strange 
and new to her. She felt, child as she was, that she; 
could never be the same as if she had not known Gay. 
And she could not see why these two brilliant, emi¬ 
nently lovable beings, Rodney and Gay, shouldn’t fall 
in love with each other and marry if they chose. 
They seemed, in her eyes, ideally suited. But the 
episode, so full of promise in its charming and ro¬ 
mantic beginnings, had ended dramatically, almost 
tragically. Gay Lawton’s departure had bruised her 
by its tragic reality. In imagination, Anna could 
always visualize May Chingford standing there 
speaking in that cruel smiling way; she could recover, 
too, the trembling thrill that had made her own 
body shiver from head to foot as she listened. She 
realized that the Nugents would try to prevent Gay 
from ever seeing Rodney again. It was Gay who had 
to suffer. 

When Anna came into the dining-room to break¬ 
fast on the following morning, she knew that Gay 
had gone. She had heard a taxi drive up at eight 
o’clock and had seen it go away again with Gay’s 
modest luggage piled up beside the chauffeur. She 
had burst out crying afresh, and her eyes were still 
scarlet and swollen when she came into the room. 

Only Mr. and Mrs. Nugent were present. May 
breakfasted in her room, and Michael often had his 
early, so as to take a walk or ride before going down 


5 * 


ANNA NUGENT 


to the city. Mrs. Nugent was at the irritable stage 
of convalescence and seeing Anna’s tearful aspect 
she said peevishly: 

“What are you crying for? I really can’t have 
you here when you look like that—it upsets me. Go 
back to the schoolroom and I’ll have your breakfast 
sent up to you.” 

“Very well, Aunt Juliet,” said Anna. She went 
out of the room, with a lump in her throat that 
threatened to choke her. 

“This comes,” said Mrs. Nugent to her husband, 
“of having a young Roman Catholic governess in 
the house. I never quite liked Miss Lawton although 
Mrs. Phipps-Moxon did give me such a glowing ac¬ 
count of her. She had such a very independent 
manner, and I’m sure she was acquiring far too great 
an influence over Anna.” 

“Poor Anna—she seems upset at losing her,” said 
Athelstan, always good-natured and ready to make 
allowances for human weakness. He couldn’t see any 
harm in Miss Lawton himself. Good-looking girl 
with plenty of brains—quite a modern type. And 
Rodney had always been foolish about girls; there 
was no harm in that. He wasn’t cool and steady¬ 
going like old Michael, who always seemed so much 
older and wiser than his twenty-three years. 

Athelstan had not been allowed to feel much of 
last night’s storm. It was no use disturbing him, 
May alleged; she could manage the whole thing per¬ 
fectly without anyone’s help, and her father need only 
know when it was all over. She moved her pawns 
with an adroit skill. By eight o’clock Gay had left 
the house, and that same day a sulky yet half-relieved 
Rodney was traveling down to Devonshire with his 
sister. May was happily unaware that he had bribed 
a housemaid to give Miss Lawton a letter before she 
left. It was couched in extremely foolish terms, and 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 


53 


arranged a place and date of meeting before his de¬ 
parture for Bombay. 

Anna was left to her own devices that day. Black, 
her aunt’s maid, looked in at intervals in obedience 
to instructions to keep an eye on her. She even 
offered to take her for a walk, but Anna shook her 
head at the suggestion.. The day was uninviting; the 
streets were wet and slippery from the rain that had 
fallen persistently all the morning, and a chill, un¬ 
pleasant wind was blowing. 

Her mind revolved continually around this prob¬ 
lem to which there seemed no solution, since the 
Nugents apparently would have nothing of Gay, and 
had abruptly terminated her brief romance. Anna 
wondered on the whole that she should have taken 
it all so calmly, accepting the decree of banishment 
without a murmur. . . . 

Anna had holidays during the next few weeks. 
She enjoyed them when her grief had had time to 
subside a little. There were delightful days when 
Michael took her to the play, and seemed to enjoy 
Peter Pan fully as much as she did. He seemed to 
understand that she was a little lonely now that Gay 
had gone; and he often took her for a walk, showed 
her the Tower and the zoo, the British Museum and 
the National Gallery, declaring that her education 
was incomplete till she had “done” all these things. 
Then there were concerts and cinemas, to say nothing 
of short motor-runs into the country on fine frosty 
days. Michael exerted himself to amuse her, as if 
he had suddenly discovered that she must be lonely 
with no young thing to keep her company, in a house 
where all were desperately bent upon their own 
concerns. 

“Oh, don’t let her bother you, Michael,” Mrs. 
Nugent used to say vaguely. Her own thoughts 
were completely occupied with Rodney at that 


54 


ANNA NUGENT 


moment. He had returned from Devonshire and 
would be sailing in about a week. She hoped that 
he wasn’t seeing “that horrid Lawton girl.” 

There was an exciting Sunday when Michael and 
Anna encountered Gay and Mrs. Phipps-Moxon in 
the porch of Westminster Cathedral, just after Mass. 
The two girls rushed into each other’s arms, while 
Michael exchanged formal greetings with Mrs. 
Phipps-Moxon, a rich War-widow of American birth, 
who had known Gay for many years. He was a little 
afraid that she might revert to the subject of Gay’s 
abrupt dismissal, especially as it was she who had 
originally recommended her for the post. But she 
hardly knew Michael, and his cold, formal manner 
did not encourage speeches of the kind. 

“Pm taking Gay around with me till she finds 
something,” she said, in her charming way. “And 
if nothing turns up she shall come to Nice with me.” 

“Anna was very sorry to lose Miss Lawton,” said 
Michael, watching the two girls as they stood apart, 
talking and laughing. Gay was looking quite her 
best, and as if she had not suffered at all from that 
recent humiliating defeat. He had hardly ever 
spoken to her, and then never more than a few con¬ 
ventional phrases, but now his curiosity was stimu¬ 
lated because she was the woman with whom Rodney 
had fallen very desperately in love. Nor could he 
doubt that he was still in love with her. He wondered 
what the outcome would be. Gay was certainly very 
pretty, and to-day there was a kind of brilliance about 
her, her eyes were so dark, her sudden smile so 
flashing, her whole aspect so full of health and in¬ 
telligence. But Rodney was only twenty—too young 
perhaps to think of marriage—and Gay was his 
senior by some years. The whole business had been 
very unfortunate and particularly hard on Gay. . . . 

It was almost a comfort to him to feel that Gay 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 


55 


had this rich, powerful friend to whom she could turn. 
She wasn’t alone and adrift, as he had feared she 
might be. Anna had revealed to him a little of Gay’s 
circumstances, and it had made him feel slightly 
anxious. 

“Well, we must push off, Anna,” he said quietly, 
and he shook hands with Mrs. Phipps-Moxon and 
Gay. 

Anna was trembling with excitement. Gay had 
whispered to her, “Oh, Anna darling, it’s going to be 
all right. I’ve seen him and we’ve settled to wait till 
he comes home again. I know you won’t give me 
away, because, of course, no one must know* He’s 
thrown dust in May’s eyes. Oh, I’m so happy, 
Anna!” 

All the time she was speaking Anna had felt a 
queer misgiving because it seemed that her love 
for Gay and her loyalty to her uncle and aunt were 
oddly at war. But she was happy too. She felt 
glad that Gay was with friends. She thought she had 
never seen her look so beautiful before. Such a 
bright, dark glowing beauty. . . . She wondered if 
Michael had noticed it too. 

2 

Rodney had gone to India, and Mrs. Nugent was 
professedly much upset at parting with him. He 
hadn’t been so pleasant as usual since the affair of 
Gay Lawton, and though he never referred to it, his 
mother had the feeling that he bitterly resented the 
treatment the girl had received. Her grief was, 
therefore, somewhat strongly tempered with relief. 

There was nothing like absence to check these 
youthful imprudent affairs. Rodney would live to 
thank her. But he seemed to blame his mother far 
more than he did his sister, who had really managed 


ANNA NUGENT 


56 

the whole business. Mrs. Nugent felt aggrieved at 
this. She considered that May ought at least to have 
shared the blame. 

One evening, she went up to the schoolroom, ac¬ 
companied by an elderly weather-beaten lady. 

“Anna,” she said, “this is Miss Hall, who will 
teach you in future. I hope you will try to be very 
industrious.” She smiled at Anna, and thought how 
much the girl had improved since she came to live 
with them. She was growing quite tall, and had a 
straight, slender figure. With her charming face and 
gray eyes and abundant fair hair, she was really very 
pretty. And she was never any trouble. No com¬ 
plaints of her ever reached Mrs. Nugent’s ears. 

She smiled at them both in her fat, sleepy way, 
and went out of the room. 

Miss Hall was a prematurely aged woman of forty 
who for more than twenty years had been living iq 
other people’s houses, teaching other people’s chil¬ 
dren. She was almost worn out, but she knew her 
work and was deeply conscientious. Anna realized 
that lessons would never again possess that zest and 
relish which Gay had imparted to them; nevertheless 
she liked Miss Hall and was diligent and industrious 
under her guidance. Miss Hall was delighted to find 
herself in London with one amenable and charming 
girl, instead of in the country, where for many years 
her existence had been embittered by athletic exer¬ 
cises, “nature-study,” and the necessity of bicycling 
from one dull village to another in pursuit of her 
charges. Anna was an ideal pupil. She moved from 
task to task, from occupation to occupation with a 
mechanical, methodical regularity. True, Gay had 
inspired her with a wish to learn, had unfolded to her 
the riches that lay within the covers of many books, 
but then she had imparted to all her lessons a thrilling 
and romantic interest quite lacking in Miss Hall’s 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 


57 

methods. Anna could see Gay, even now, standing 
there, illustrating her lectures on the blackboard— 
that quick eager boyish figure, lank and long, the up¬ 
lifting brown hand, the dark bright eyes, the black 
hair, all the gipsy brightness of her. . . . 

Things setded down again to their normal calm. 
The waves rolled smoothly over what had been for 
a brief unpleasant period chaos and confusion. Gay 
sent Anna postcards sometimes from the South of 
France, whither she had gone with Mrs. Phipps- 
Moxon. Rodney was apparently liking India. 
Michael was more taciturn than ever, going regularly 
to the city, inwardly resentful, and feeling sometimes 
like a soul-less machine. 

As the years went on, Anna thought less of Sant’ 
Elena. The pain had gone out of those poignant 
memories of roses and sunshine. Even the brightness 
of that blue sea and sky had faded a little, had be¬ 
come merged as it were in the gray gloom of London 
with its ceaseless accompaniment of rumbling sound 
that was the audible voice of the great city. She 
didn’t hate it any more. She was quite happy there, 
and sometimes she even began to suspect herself of 
beginning to love it. Something in its austere charm 
reminded her of Michael. . , . 

One night Athelstan Nugent returned from the city 
looking unusually tired and worried. As a rule he 
was uniformly cheerful. At dinner he said suddenly: 
“I must telephone presently to hear how Patton is.” 

Mr. Patton was the head of the firm. Anna had 
seen him, for he came sometimes to luncheon with 
them, and she never quite knew why she instinctively 
disliked him. He was a big, black-bearded man with 
a loud domineering voice, and he repelled her. 
Mingled with her dislike there was a little fear. 

“Is he ill?” she asked. 


ANNA NUGENT 


58 


“Yes—he had a stroke last night. Came on quite 
suddenly. He was at the office yesterday. He was 
still unconscious this afternoon.” 

The news of Mr. Patton’s illness cast a little gloom 
upon them. They each in turn tried to start a new 
topic of conversation, but in the end they always came 
back to this particular one. As soon as dinner was 
over, Mr. Nugent went to the telephone. He seemed 
almost feverishly eager for news. Patton was the 
leading spirit in the firm, and the prospect of losing 
him at rather a critical moment alarmed Athelstan, 
despite his cheery optimism. There were so many 
transactions undertaken wholly by Patton of which 
he himself had 110 cognizance. He had always 
meant to ask him for a fuller initiation into the opera¬ 
tions of Messrs. Patton and Nugent. As a partner 
he felt that he had a right to know. But Patton had 
a rough, unapproachable manner; he disliked being 
questioned, and he had always contrived to relegate 
Athelstan to a subordinate position. 

But these last years had been highly critical ones 
for many firms, and the news of Patton’s illness just 
then made Nugent feel anxious and preoccu¬ 
pied. ... F 

. Presently he came up into the drawing-room, where 
his wife and Anna were sitting. His face had a queer 
grayish look. 

“My dear Juliet—I’ve just heard that Patton 
died at five o’clock without recovering consciousness.” 

Anna always remembered that little scene. Some¬ 
thing in Athelstan’s face had chilled her. It even 
gave her a vague premonition of misfortune. She 
wondered if Aunt Juliet had noticed anything. But 
if she did so she made no remark. She only looked 
up indolently from the novel she was reading and 
said: 

“What a fearful bore for you, Athelstan. I sup- 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 


59 

pose you will be chained to the office more than ever 
now. But you must get Michael to help you.” 

She resumed her reading and Athelstan went out 
of the room. 

“If it was only that. . . .” he said. 

“Does it make so very much difference to you, Mr. 
Patton’s being dead?” Anna asked Michael on the 
following Sunday, as they were walking across the 
Park on their way to the Cathedral. 

It was always a joy to her when Michael said at 
breakfast: “I’ll take you to Mass this morning, 
Anna,” and now that she had recently been emanci¬ 
pated from all governesses he seldom failed to ac¬ 
company her. 

She did not yet realize that now it had begun to 
seem unnatural to him to go to any other church, so 
completely had he identified himself with Catholic 
doctrine and teaching. But like many others he was 
content with this imperfect, superficial relation, not as 
yet feeling such urgent need for a closer contact, a 
fuller participation, as to justify himself in taking a 
definite step toward over-passing certain barriers. 
Nevertheless he was much more fully informed now 
upon certain points. He could see the mercy as well 
as the justice that lay hidden in the sacrament of 
Penance. As he drew closer indeed, all doubts and 
difficulties seemed automatically to vanish into thin 
air. 

“I think it will make a very great difference to my 
father,” he said guardedly. “I mean it’ll put an 
awful lot on his shoulders. But I shall help him all I 
can.” 

“Michael—I never liked Mr. Patton. He seemed 
such a bully.” 

Anna made the confession reluctantly. But 
Michael only laughed. 


6 o 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Neither did I! I’ve felt a brute, though, for 
being thankful I should never hear his loud voice at 
the office again. But my father minds it more than 
I ever thought he would. He’s been quite worried— 
an unusual thing for him—these days.” 

“I’m sorry for that,” said Anna. 

They walked on, and suddenly Michael turned to 
her and said: 

“Why, Anna, you’ve done up your hair!” 

Very little of her fair hair showed beneath the hat 
pulled down nearly to her brows, except the two 
bright curls that covered her ears. 

“Yes. Black did it for me. Do you like it, 
Michael?” 

“Yes. But it makes you look older. Not a child 
any more.” 

“I’m nearly eighteen,” she said smiling; “you for- 
get I’ve been here four years.” 

“Four years,” he repeated, “why, it seems only the 
other day—” 

He looked at her. Yes, her head was on a level 
with his shoulder now. She was of middle height, but 
looked more because of her little head, the slender- 
ness of her body. 

“Soon I shall be able to go back to Sant’ Elena,” 
she said. 

“Sant’ Elena!” he echoed. “I wonder if my mother 
realizes that you’re grown up?” 

I think she must. I go out with her more ofteq 
than I used to. And I don’t have a governess now.” 

Since Miss Hall left, two years before, there had 
been a succession of elderly ladies, even less well- 
favored, who had taken upon themselves the charge 
of Anna s education. But not one of them had ever 
usurped Gay’s place in her affection** And in her 
dreams of the Villa Caterina she always saw Gay 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 61 

with her, in that garden of beautiful flowers on the 
edge of a sea-washed cliff. 

i? Ut WES st ^ * n A ust . ralia > tea ching in a big 
college for women, and enjoying the free colonial life. 
Lately, however, a certain nostalgia had crept into 
her letters; she sometimes wrote of coming home. She 
seldom alluded to Rodney now. Anna used to won¬ 
der if that romance had perished. 

Michael was lost in thought as he walked beside 
her. She was nearly eighteen, and at that age she 
would pass from his father’s guardianship. She 
would spread her wings for flight—she would go 
back to the south. . . . 


3 

A few days later, Athelstan threw a little parcel 
across the breakfast table into Anna’s lap. 

“Catch!” he said. He often treated her still as if 
she were quite a little girl. Michael wasn’t the only 
person in the house who had failed to realize she was 
growing up. 

. “Michael’s been telling me that you’re nearly 
eighteen,” he went on, watching her as she bent her 
glowing face over the tiny parcel. How pretty she 
was, with all that soft fair hair framing her face, the 
delicately penciled dark brows, the shining gray eyes 
—bright as only young eyes are bright. 

She had opened the box, and had discovered within 
it a row of small milky pearls, very perfect and 
fastened with a tiny diamond clasp. 

“Oh, Uncle Athelstan, thank you!” She looked 
up, her face smiling with pleasure. “They’re sweet!” 
She clasped them round her neck. 

“Well, we must think about your being presented. 
May might take you to one of the later courts.” 


62 


ANNA NUGENT 


“I really don’t see any necessity,” put in Mrs. 
Nugent’s indolent voice. 

“I do. She’s my niece.” 

“Well, I know May’s going to present Stella— 
Lady Wendle’s too ill to go. It’s no use thinking 
about Anna this year. Besides, she’s too young.” 

Michael was looking at Anna. Those pearls 
looked charming against her satin-smooth skin. She 
made him think of some tranquil landscape at dawn. 

“Awful bore being presented, I should think,” he 
remarked lazily. 

“Well, she must come out soon,” said Athelstan. 
He had learnt to regard Anna with a kind of pro¬ 
prietary feeling, almost as if she were his own 
daughter. 

“Now she’s nearly eighteen, we shall have to think 
about settling that Sant’ Elena business,” said Mrs. 
Nugent. 

“Oh, you’d better make up your mind to sell it,” 
said Athelstan, turning to Anna. “It’s no use your 
keeping a big house like that. And I’m told the 
present tenants are prepared to make an excellent 
offer.” 

It wasn’t likely, he thought, that Anna would ever 
wish to return to the Villa Caterina. She must have 
struck roots here in London. And until she married 
she could continue to make her home with them. 

Anna listened in silence, and some dismay. It 
seemed to her that he was deliberately, though uncon¬ 
sciously, destroying her long-cherished dream of re¬ 
turning to Italy, and living there with Gay Lawton. 

To her intense relief Michael, perhaps divining 
her thoughts, struck in almost immediately, saying: 

“If Anna’s got any sense, she won’t sell it—she’ll 
go and live there herself!” 

The clouds vanished, and she saw again the silver 
olives, the gold light flowing over land and sea; the 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 


63 

torrents of pink roses; old Francesca, with her dark 
kind weather-beaten face and wavy iron-gray 
hair. . . . 

“What nonsense, Michael! She could never afford 
to keep it up on her income,” said Mrs. Nugent. “It 
would be quite a white elephant. She’d better sell it 
as soon as she’s eighteen, and realize the money.” 

The mention of the Villa Caterina always awak¬ 
ened her to one of her most alert and decided moods. 
One dreaded those intervals of perspicacity—so 
Anna’s thoughts ran—lest their sudden decisions 
should be directed against one’s most cherished 
dreams. 

“I hope,” said Michael, “that she won’t be such a 
little fool.” 

“Dearest Michael, what do you know about it? 
You’ve never seen the place! Not one of the win¬ 
dows shut properly, and as for the doors! And you 
might just as well be on an island, you’re so close to 
the sea.” 

“But if it really belongs to me and I may choose,” 
said Anna, her courage stimulated by Michael’s sup¬ 
port, “I shan’t want to sell it. I’ve always dreamed 
of going back to live there.”, Her cheeks flamed 
with excitement. 

“Oh, it’s yours, right enough,” said Athelstan, 
“and we can’t sell it till you are eighteen because you 
have to sign the necessary documents. But I’m 
afraid that you’d never be able to keep it up. Be¬ 
sides, from all accounts it’s very much in need of 
repair.” 

Michael watched her lazily. He was delighted to 
discover a strain of Nugent obstinacy in Anna. He 
could see, too, that his father’s arguments had utterly 
failed to convince her. 

Mrs. Nugent sighed. 

“Darling Anna is quite ignorant about money. 


ANNA NUGENT 


64 

She’s like me—she has no head for figures. You’ll 
have to explain it all to her some day when you’ve 
lots of time!” ... 

Anna made up her mind that she would sign no 
documents that should be drawn up with a view to 
depriving her of Villa Caterina. It was hers, and she 
meant to go and live there. The future assumed a 
rosy aspect, and it was nice, too, to feel that Michael 
was so strongly on her side. She put up her hand and 
fingered the pearls that encircled her throat. How 
wonderful to be eighteen. . . . 

After breakfast she went up to the schoolroom, 
feeling excited and rather rebellious. She stood at 
the window looking across the Park, where the trees 
were beginning to offer a sea of pale green fire to 
the sky. The wide road below was crowded with 
traffic. 

Suddenly the door opened and Michael came into 
the room. His thin face wore a perplexed look. He 
was twenty-six now, and looked more. His sedentary 
London life did not suit him too well, and his heart 
was even less in his work than it had ever been. 

To Anna he seemed almost unimaginably old, but 
so dear, so understanding. He seldom sought her out 
in her eyrie at this hour, so that his coming gave her 
an unexpected sense of pleasure. 

“Look here, Anna,” he said, “don’t listen to them. 
Stick to your villa. It means such a lot to have your 
own four walls, and you’re jolly lucky to have such 
nice ones. I’m sure you can live there on very little.” 

“I don’t mean to give it up,” said Anna quickly. 
“I’ve always meant—when I was old enough—to go 
back and live there.” 

“Rodney and I have both sold our souls for 
money,” said Michael, in an ironical tone that yet 
held something of bitter sadness. “He gave up Gay, 
and he’s never married. He hasn’t forgotten her—I 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 65 

believe they still consider themselves engaged. I’m 
stuck fast in the city, and it’s loathsome, especially 

w , en j-i the tlme you want t0 be dc, ing something 
quite different. But we’ve both got money.” 

Anna stood there near him by the window, look- 

?iS u CI ? i a , nd slender—almost like a fairy child, 
Michael thought. 

“Some day perhaps it’ll be different. Some day you 
may find a way of escape. Things do happen,” she 
said. r 

But we’re not all as lucky as you, Anna. You’ve 
had this way of escape waiting for you all these 
years He wondered for the first time, if she had 
be ^ D ha l?Py Wltb tbem during her time of probation 

But it won’t be as perfect as I used to think,” she 
said, in a low tone. 

“Why not?” 

“I shall be sorry to go away. I’ve been so happy 
here, she assured him, simply. 

He was touched and pleased to hear her say that. 
All at once he thought they might have done so much 
more for her. She must often have felt a little soli- 
tary and neglected in that great house. Of course, 
she had been kindly treated and well cared for. His 
mother was always indulgent to the young, and was 
particular and careful, too, about material comfort. 

Oh’ but this won’t be good-bye, you know,” he 
said, you 11 have to come over and see us whenever 
you feel inclined. I hate the thought of your going 
away too, and it’s for your own sake, not for mine, 
that I’ve urged you not to sell your villa.” 

He looked at the clock. It would be time for him 
to start in a very few minutes. And there was so 
much he still wished to say to her—to assure her of 
his support in this matter that she had to decide. 

For although he had advised her to go back to 
Sant’ Elena, he knew that personally he would miss 


66 


ANNA NUGENT 


her very much. She was so different from May, who 
at that age had had troops of eager admirers and 
was practically engaged to Ching-Chang. But some¬ 
how he didn’t want Anna to make an early ambitious 
marriage as May had done. She needed other things 
—spiritual things. 

“I must be off—I shall be late—” he said. 

He dashed out of the room leaving Anna still 
standing pensively by the window. 

It would hurt her, she began to think, to leave 
Michael. She would miss him—his friendly counsel 
—his kindliness—his constant thought for her. But 
in her ears she heard the sea, sounding as it does on 
calm and windless nights, with a deep, strange call. 
“Chiama il mare ” as the Italian boatmen say. She 
seemed to hear that call now above the stir of traffic, 
the grinding of wheels, the shrill hooting of the 
motor-cars. And it was calling her back to Sant’ 
Elena. 

4 

On their way to the city that morning, Michael said 
to his father: 

“I suppose you’ll give Anna some sort of allow¬ 
ance if she decides to go and live at the Villa 
Caterina?” 

They were traveling by “tube.” Mr. Nugent 
had been brought up to habits of strict economy by 
a stern early Victorian parent who had believed in 
“taking care of the pence.” He had never altered 
his ways, and had even successfully imposed them 
upon his son, so that neither of them would have 
dreamed of journeying to the office in one of the 
luxurious motor-cars that Athelstan kept for the use 
of his family. 

He wrinkled his forehead. 

“Give Anna an allowance? What on earth for?” 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 


67 

“To live on,” said Michael, laconically. Somehow 
he thought his father would have shown a greater 
eagerness in the matter. 

“Don’t you think my hands are full enough as they 
are? We’ve still got to see what effect Patton’s 
death is going to have upon us.” 

And again his face wore a look of unaccustomed 
worry. 

Michael felt sorry for him. He wished now that 
he hadn’t made the suggestion. 

“Besides, we think she ought to sell. Land’s 
fetching good prices in Italy now. A house like that 
is worth an awful lot.” 

“I don’t think it would be wise to stop her from 
going to live there if she wants to. And she really 
does want to.” 

“Oh, that’s only a girlish whim—she’d be sick of it 
in a month! And she’d far better stay with us till 
she marries. We must look out for someone for 
her,” continued Athelstan airily. “May was married 
when she was very little older than Anna.” 

Michael felt curiously annoyed. He thought his 
father was being purposely obtuse. And he didn’t 
like to hear Anna’s future being disposed of in this 
light-hearted manner. But he forbore to argue the 
point. On thinking it over, too, he wondered what 
his father had meant by saying that he had already 
enough on his hands. 

“Rodney’s in debt again,” said Athelstan, pres¬ 
ently, taking a letter from his pocket. “He wants 
five hundred pounds at once. It’s awkward just now. 
But he says he’ll have to leave the regiment if I don’t 
send it. And to tell you the truth I don’t want him to 
come home yet. He’d only be taking up with that 
Lawton girl again.” 

“Why don’t you let them marry? She’d keep him 
out of mischief—a clever, brainy girl like that.” 


68 


ANNA NUGENT 


Athelstan was on fairly intimate terms with his 
elder son where matters of business were concerned, 
but he had never discussed Rodney’s love affair with 
him. Mrs. Nugent had opposed it so strenuously 
that her husband from motives of loyalty had not 
mentioned the matter to Michael. He had done all 
he could for Rodney from a pecuniary point of view, 
hoping that time and absence would teach him to for¬ 
get Gay. 

“Oh, well, your mother wouldn’t hear of it,” 
Athelstan said. 

“But surely she must see it’s ruining his life and 
Miss Lawton’s, too,” said Michael indignantly. 

“It was a most unfortunate affair altogether. And 
then the girl was a Catholic. I’d no idea your mother 
had any prejudices about that. It’s a very good sort 
of religion—Temple seemed to find it a great com¬ 
fort. And this child of his—she’s none the worse 
for being one, is she?” 

He thrust Rodney’s letter into his pocket and 
sighed. Every single member of his family, with the 
exception of Michael, who was oddly austere in his 
tastes, seemed bent on getting through as much money 
as possible. And though he was a rich man—or 
rather had always regarded himself as one—he 
sometimes felt that his resources were being strained 
to the uttermost. 

“Well, it’s no good meeting trouble half-way,” he 
said, with a return to his usual cheery manner. 
“Only, if Anna does consult you about the Villa 
Caterina, mind you encourage her to sell it. It’ll be 
wiser for her to get rid of it.” 

“Why?” inquired Michael. 

“Well, for one thing, she’s much too young to set 
up on her own. For another, she hasn’t got the 
money to keep it up. And I can’t do anything more 
for her—I really can’t, Michael.” 


EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD 69 

I don’t think I can stop her from going to live 
there. Her heart has always been in Italy.” 

^ She’s told you so?” asked Athelstan. 

Not in so many w r ords. But I know she wants to 
go back.” 

Athelstan thought: “He’ll be falling in love with 
Anna next. Juliet won’t like that!” 

At the Bank they emerged into the upper air. 
Caught, as it were, into a resistless torrent of black- 
coated top-hatted men, they swam with that in¬ 
exorable tide along the crowded pavements. 

Michael loathed that daily journey—the rushing 
noise of the impetuous tube, the walk that awaited 
them at the end. But to-day it seemed to him more 
distasteful than usual. To earn money, and yet more 
money, that he never had time to spend upon any of 
the really beautiful and desirable things that life 
could offer, the lovely and leisurely things—this was 
to him a monstrous waste, a gratuitous worshiping 
of Mammon. He couldn’t blame Anna for wishing 
to free herself from that world, that atmosphere. 
And yet with her going he felt that the one really 
beautiful and tender thing would vanish forever from 
his horizon. 

He seemed to see her standing there in the old 
schoolroom, with its somber background of books 
and the dark red wall-paper that had never been 
changed since May was a child. Lithe, slender and 
radiantly fair, with her gray eyes, her bright pale 
hair flowing back from her forehead, her small 
Italianate features drawn with the delicacy of a 
cameo. . . . Such a look of finish with all the sim¬ 
plicity that was such an essential part of her. The 
finish that belongs to accurate line and harmonious 
coloring. 

To-day she tormented his thoughts. He hated the 


ANNA NUGENT 


70 

prospect of losing her, and yet he knew he would 
not lift a finger to induce her to stay. For her own 
sake she must go back to the flowers and sunshine of 
her southern garden. She mustn’t grow old here, 
learning to depend more and more upon this smother¬ 
ing luxury that led nowither. And he envied her— 
her power to cut the knot and free herself from it. 
It wasn’t worth while. He had a vision of her then, 
standing amid the glancing silver of an olive orchard, 
with the sun pouring its gold upon her hair. 

The human torrent increased its pace. Not a mo¬ 
ment to be lost. Yes, they were all like sheep, driven 
by an incomprehensible but inexorable impulse. 
Michael stumbled forward with the rest, in the wake 
of his father, that little gray man who stepped on¬ 
ward with such brisk eagerness. They were both of 
them inconspicuous units, differing in no way from the 
rest. And, looking at those placid, pale faces around 
him, Michael wondered if they could all really be as 
free as they appeared, from that fierce interior revolt 
that to-day was shaking, with a kind of seismic force, 
his own soul to its very foundations. 

He moved forward blindly with the rest, his face 
sullen and stormy, thinking of Anna. . . . 


CHAPTER IV 

MRS. NUGENT INTERRUPTS 

I 

M RS. NUGENT rarely went up to Michael’s 
room, which was on a half-landing near the 
top of the house. It was a big room with an alcove, 
so that his bed was screened off, and the rest was 
furnished as a sitting-room. Formerly he and Rod¬ 
ney had shared this spacious apartment, but the ar¬ 
rangement came to an end when they were no longer 
schoolboys. 

It suddenly occurred to her that, as Michael would 
shortly be going away for a few weeks, it would be 
as well to have his room painted and papered. It 
hadn’t been done for a long time. If she asked him, 
she knew that he would vehemently refuse to have 
anything changed. But Mrs. Nugent had a secret 
passion for house-decoration; she was a woman, too, 
of considerable taste; it was quite time that Michael’s 
surroundings should be a little more in keeping with 
the rest of the house. She felt quite ashamed some¬ 
times when Michael took Ching-Chang up to his 
room to have a smoke. 

The place was overflowing with books. She had 
no idea that Michael possessed so many. The room, 
being at the back of the house, was somewhat dark, 
and it was difficult for her to examine them. But her 
elder son had always been something of an enigma 
to her, and she felt a sudden curiosity to know what 
sort of literature interested him. 

71 


72 


ANNA NUGENT 


That he spent long hours reading, she was per¬ 
fectly aware; his light could be seen burning hours 
after everyone else had gone to bed. Mrs. Nugent 
approached the somewhat untidy shelves. A title 
caught her eye. It was, The Catholic Church from 
Within. Next to it was a smaller book in limp 
morocco cover with gilt letters. She opened it and 
read the ominous words, Roman Missal. The shelf, 
from end to end, was filled with books of like pur¬ 
port; lives of saints, the Exercises of St. Ignatius, 
copies of the Imitation both in Latin and English, a 
worn Breviary. There were books, too, on the 
Papacy, others explanatory of the Mass, and several 
prayer-books, some of which looked as if they had 
been much used. A complete set of Cardinal New¬ 
man’s works occupied a shelf to themselves. 

It took Mrs. Nugent a few minutes to recover 
from her dismayed astonishment. When Anna had 
first come to stay with them, she had herself decided 
that as long as there was no governess to undertake 
the task, Michael should be deputed to escort her to 
church. He was always good-natured, and ready to be 
helpful when anything was required, and she felt that 
with his stern and austere character he would be the 
least likely of anyone to be influenced by what he saw 
and heard. It is not pleasant for a vain, complacent 
woman to discover that, for once in her life, she has 
been thoroughly mistaken, yet that was Mrs. 
Nugent’s present mortified condition. 

She sat down in one of Michael’s capacious, 
shabby arm-chairs, and began to reflect. A shock of 
any kind always aroused her from her habitual in¬ 
dolent lethargy, and she was at that moment very 
wide-awake indeed. She felt like Fatima, when she 
made her gruesome discovery in Bluebeard’s for¬ 
bidden chamber. 

When she looked back, she saw that Michael 


MRS . NUGENT INTERRUPTS 


73 


throughout Anna’s stay with them had shown himself 
assiduous, though at no time eager, in the matter of 
taking the girl to church. She wondered what it was 
that he had seen and heard that had made him de¬ 
sirous of knowing more. Had Anna said things to 
him? She dismissed the thought as idle. He was 
not at all the sort of man to permit himself to be in¬ 
fluenced by a child. Never once had Mrs. Nugent 
heard Anna allude to her religion, and she had there¬ 
fore rashly concluded that either she took it very 
much for granted or else that she was quite indifferent 
to it. There were mornings, of course, when Michael 
had said that Anna wished to go to Mass before 
breakfast, and had made no difficulty about getting 
up earlier in order to escort her. Little by little Mrs. 
Nugent began to piece the matter together. She had 
no prejudice against the Catholic religion in itself, for 
she knew next to nothing about it, but she was con¬ 
vinced that socially it was detrimental to anyone to 
belong to it. That was why she had opposed, with 
hidden and secret fierceness, the idea of a marriage 
between Rodney and Miss Lawton. It was bad 
enough for Rodney to fall in love with a penniless 
girl older than himself, but that she should be a 
Catholic into the bargain, fairly, according to modern 
parlance, put the lid on it. The thought of Rodney’s 
entanglement set her thoughts traveling in a very dif¬ 
ferent direction. Was there—could there—be any¬ 
thing between Michael and Anna that was not strictly 
fraternal? She dismissed the hypothesis at once. 
Anna was far too young, a mere child, abruptly child¬ 
ish, too, for her years. If he had thought of Anna 
at all, it must have been simply as a charming, affec¬ 
tionate little sister. Nothing else was possible. Men 
did sometimes fall in love with mere children, but 
Michael was the last man to do it. And, besides, 
only the other day he had almost urged Anna not to 


ANNA NUGENT 


74 

sell the Villa Caterina. It was obvious, therefore, 
that he had no particular reason for wishing to keep 
her in London. 

Hanging opposite to her on a large space or blank 
wall was an immense crucifix. The figure was of some 
silver-colored metal, affixed to an ebony cross. 
Michael had not attempted to hide it; it hung there 
for all to see. It was an antique of great beauty. 
But combined with the books it gave her maternal 
heart a fresh stab of dismay. She had felt so sure of 
Michael. The blow touched her intelligence. She 
had often said she could read her children like so 
many books. But there had nevertheless always been 
things about Michael, boy and man, that had puzzled 

Mrs. Nugent had very seldom openly interfered 
with her children. She was a person whose lethargic 
attitude toward life demanded conditions, of con¬ 
sistent harmony. Had she discovered them in acts of 
mischief and disobedience in their youth, she would 
have deputed one of their many guardians, nurse or 
governess, to exercise a more fruitful vigilance. She 
had never wanted to come to terms with them herself, 
to admonish or punish. It would have been, to say 
the least of it, far too fatiguing. And she did not 
want to confront Michael now with her sinister dis¬ 
covery. Her methods were far suaver than that. 
She could not, as in the case of Rodney, remove the 
glittering object of his desire, for Catholic churches 
were, alas, far too numerous in London now. She 
must think of other means. 

She went downstairs and began to examine the 
books containing patterns of wall-papers, curtains, 
and chintzes, in order to decide the scheme of decora¬ 
tion that was to be employed. When everything was 
settled, Michael was of course to have the casting 
vote. His taste lay in the direction of quiet, grave 


MRS . NUGENT INTERRUPTS 


75 


colors and harmonious contrasts, nothing that caught 
the eye. His room, she told herself, wanted doing up 
badly. She wished she could have made a clean sweep 
of everything in it. 

There was no clew to the reason of this extraor¬ 
dinary departure of Michael’s except that he must 
have been familiarized with these things in his weekly 
expeditions with Anna to Westminster Cathedral, 
lasting now over a term of years. Mrs. Nugent was 
perturbed, but by no means despairing. There had 
never been any Roman Catholics in her own family, 
and Temple Nugent appeared to be the only relation 
on her husband’s side who had ever “gone over to 
Rome.” 

She had no wish to seek out Michael, as many 
mothers would have done, and unburden her heart, 
with all its passionate anxiety and fears, to him, giv¬ 
ing him a glimpse of that solicitude to which surely 
he could not remain indifferent. But she could not 
remember that she had ever spoken to him on the 
subject of religion; she had left that part of his edu¬ 
cation, like all the rest of it, to others. Nor would 
she at any time have cared to provoke a scene, com¬ 
plex, emotional, and even perhaps harrowing. But 
she wondered how far Michael had gone along the 
road that led to Rome, whether he was finding it 
difficult or easy, repellent or attractive. What, in 
fact, it was like when one got quite close to it. . . . 

She looked at her elder son, that night at dinner, 
with a kind of soft and melancholy scrutiny. But he 
had acquired significance in her eyes, and she was 
glad to think that she held the clew to what had often 
puzzled her in his deliberate austerity, his consistent 
gravity, which seemed to have chased from him some¬ 
thing of the gayety of youth. 


76 


ANNA NUGENT 


2 

Athelstan and Michael always lunched together at 
the same restaurant, sitting at the same table, eating 
food that varied little from day to day. It was a 
necessary interlude in the hours of work and assiduous 
money-making, but it held little pleasure for Michael. 

A week or two had passed since Mrs. Nugent’s dis¬ 
covery, and Michael was still wholly unaware of it. 
He had been told that his room needed “doing up,” 
and as he was aware that this proceeding gave his 
mother a temporary interest in life, he tactfully ac¬ 
quiesced in the scheme and gave his opinion upon the 
subject of paper and paint without reluctance. It 
was a warm day in April—the kind of day when pessi¬ 
mists shake their heads and say it can’t possibly last 
and we shall pay for it by and by, instead of enjoying 
the good moment whole-heartedly. 

They had just taken their seats at the table and 
Athelstan had given the order to the waiter who 
invariably, so to speak, took charge of them, when 
the elder Nugent remarked: 

“You’ve worked uncommonly well this year, 
Michael, and I mean to take you into partnership. 
Nugent and Son—it was that for many years, you 
know.” 

“Oh, thanks most awfully, Dad,” said Michael, 
confused. 

Outwardly he was grateful for his father’s gener¬ 
osity; inwardly he hated himself for feeling that the 
chains had tightened a little. A partner? Nugent 
and Son. . . . And as the years went on, and Athel¬ 
stan—incredible prospect—grew older and retired 
from an active participation in the firm, Michael 
would slip into those comfortable shoes. He would 
be able to marry when he was a partner. But he had 
never thought of marriage. He had never played 


MRS. NUGENT INTERRUPTS 


77 


with love as Rodney had done. He had not even 
thought of marriage that day, not so long ago, when 
he had for the first time realized Anna’s beauty. He 
had only thought of her as a dear charming child, 
hidden away in the old gloomy schoolroom, leading 
the life that he supposed girls of that age had to lead. 

Now for the first time he seemed to see the words 
marriage and Anna in juxtaposition, tormentingly. 
But no, he could never share that fairy, unreal life of 
hers at Sant’ Elena. A partner? He would be bound 
body and soul to Nugent and Son. No escape now. 
If he married and left Lancaster Gate, it would be to 
settle down in some convenient suburb not too far 
from a golf-course. He could see the very house, 
banal and monstrous in its detached double-fronted 
superiority to its neighbors. The neat garden with a 
tennis court. “Ideal residence for a city man” he 
could see the advertisement which would tempt him 
to go and inspect it. He would go up every day to 
London, arriving at Cannon Street or Waterloo. 
Cannon Street—the name seemed to him less a place 
than an agglomeration of acrid odors, the distillation 
of a million fogs, the deposit of many decades @f 
evil smoke ... an inferno such as Dante might 
have painted. And he would be one of hundreds of 
pallid city men descending from the overflowing 
morning trains. Back to the city, and in the evening 
back to the red-brick suburban home replete with 
every labor-saving device, with its jaunty white- 
painted balcony and gimcrack stucco decorations. 
Still, if Anna were to be there, waiting for him. . . . 
He thrust the thought from him. He couldn’t con¬ 
ceive of such an existence as that for Anna. She had 
known other things, fairer, more beautiful things, 
spacious in their fresh loveliness, and sometimes he 
had wondered how far the memory of them still held 
her. 


78 ANNA NUGENT 

“You’re not eating anything,” said Athelstan 
suddenly. 

Perhaps he had sprung the news too suddenly upon 
him. For Michael was looking very pale, and his 
expression was more repressed even than usual. Odd, 
but he had never noticed before what a queer, dreamy, 
unpractical look his son had about the eyes. Just 
as if he were thinking of something a long way off. 
Perhaps this idea of the partnership had “staggered” 
him. Even a junior partnership would make a con¬ 
siderable difference to his income. It might be he 
was thinking of marriage. Well, Athelstan would 
have no objection to that. He had married young 
himself, and had never regretted it. But somehow 
Michael had never seemed to be a marrying man; he 
was supposed to dislike girls, and certainly he never 
sought their society. He was quite different in this 
respect from Rodney. Athelstan felt that it would 
add dignity and solidity to his own position to have 
his elder son settled in life, always provided that he 
chose the right woman. 

Michael ate a scanty lunch. He wasn’t hungry. 
The news had upset him. While his father seemed 
and intended indeed to give royally, he was in reality 
taking away more than he knew. Shutting out light 
and air and beauty . . . and Anna. Anna was defi¬ 
nitely in his mind now as the woman he wished to 
marry. Even so, he wasn’t going to try to stop her 
from going back to Sant’ Elena. He wanted to think 
of her there, in the sunshine and among the flowers 
that belonged to her. 

And then there was the religious question that had 
been troubling him now for how many years. Ever 
since the days when he had first accompanied Anna 
to Mass, and had read from her prayer-book, and 
had been startled by the wonder and beauty of those 
liturgical prayers with all their simple yet sublime per- 


MRS . NUGENT INTERRUPTS 


79 


fection. He had wondered sometimes how his par¬ 
ents would take it if he became a Catholic, but of this 
he could form no opinion, he did not know in the 
least what they felt about it, he could never remember 
having heard the subject discussed. They hadn’t, it 
is true, liked the idea of Rodney’s marrying a 
Catholic, but there were objections to Gay on the 
score of pennilessness besdes. 

He longed at that moment to tell his father, but in 
his sensitiveness he shrank from speaking of some¬ 
thing that was so intimate, so much part of himself. 
And anyhow it didn’t seem quite the moment. 

He was glad when coffee was brought. They lit 
their cigarettes and went out into the street, where 
the warm spring wind raced by with a kind of wild 
gayety. 

3 

Michael stayed at home to dinner that night, nor 
would he tell himself that he had formed the habit of 
doing so lately, ever since it had been decreed that 
Anna was to dine downstairs. 

She wore a white dress, very simply made, with 
touches of pale blue. Her golden hair looked pale 
under the electric light. 

“Well, what have you been doing to-day, Anna?” 
asked Athelstan. 

It was his invariable question, and generally it re¬ 
ceived a commonplace answer, for Anna’s days 
differed little, one from another. 

To-night she sprang a surprise upon her three 
interlocutors. 

“I met Gay in Bond Street.” 

“Gay!” 

It seemed to Anna that the three voices exclaimed 
the word in chorus. She colored faintly. 

“Pid you speak to her, Anna darling?” Risked Mrs. 


8o 


ANNA NUGENT 


Nugent, opening her eyes very wide as if she were 
just awake. 

“She ran up to me,” said Anna. “We had tea 
together. . . .” 

“Why has she come back from Australia ?” asked 
Athelstan. 

“She didn’t want to stay there any longer. She was 
homesick.” 

“But she hasn’t a home,” objected Mrs. Nugent. 
Her lazy voice held a faint note of acerbity. 

“She wants to find something to do in England,” 
said Anna. 

Athelstan was mildly interested. He had liked 
Miss Lawton, her courage, her independence, her 
extraordinary ability. “She’ll soon find something. 
A clever girl like that won’t be long out of a job.” 

“She’s found something,” said Anna, looking de¬ 
lightfully demure. “I’ve engaged her as my com¬ 
panion when I go to Sant’ Elena. She does not mind 
waiting a little, she says.” She flung her little bomb¬ 
shell with a calmness that astonished Michael. “She 
likes the idea.” 

“What a good scheme,” said Michael. 

“A good scheme, Michael? I should call it a very 
bad one. If darling Anna wants a companion she 
ought to have a much older woman. Besides, I had 
to send Miss Lawton away, so it wouldn’t look at all 
well, would it? And then it isn’t certain that Anna 
is going back to Italy at all.” 

Anna was silent. She was aware as never before 
of conflicting loyalties, just as she had been at the time 
of Gay’s peremptory dismissal. She had loved her 
very much—her first girl-friend. She had never for¬ 
gotten her, and as she grew older, she realized what 
Gay must have suffered under that roof, what she 
must indeed still be suffering in her long separation 
from Rodney. Mrs. Nugent’s action in dismissing 


MRS. NUGENT INTERRUPTS 


81 


her had always seemed to Anna a terrible, arbitrary 
one. . And always, always, too, it had seemed cruel, 
both in intention and in manner of accomplishment. 

She looked across the table at Michael almost im¬ 
ploringly, and he merely said in a cold formal tone: 

“Anna has a right to decide. When she’s eighteen 
we have no further control over her.” 

# His cold clean-cut face showed no emotion; his 
violet eyes were like, bright steel. He seemed to be 
judging the case as if it were a stranger’s, not con¬ 
cerning himself at all. Nugent and Son. . . . yes, he 
would soon be fast bound to the firm and its interests; 
he would.be a prosperous hard-working man like his 
father, with no time to enjoy the fruits of his labor. 
And all the time—yes, all the time—Anna, from her 
fairy fastness in the South, would haunt him. 

He knew then that he loved Anna. ... 

“Oh, I should think Miss Lawton would do very 
well indeed,” said Athelstan, “and it’s time to let 
bygones be bygones now. I’m sure Rodney’s quite 
forgotten that old affair,” he added mendaciously. 
“And Anna must have a chaperon of sorts.” 

“Miss Lawton must have changed very much if 
she’s become an adequate chaperon,” said Mrs. 
Nugent, indolently. 

When dinner was ended, Athelstan retired to his 
study to smoke, and Michael went with him. They 
glanced at the evening papers, and sometimes made 
laconic remarks concerning the items of news. No 
one was going out that evening. At ten o’clock Mrs. 
Nugent appeared, and Michael shortly afterwards 
went up to his room. He was tired, and he had 
letters to write. On his way he passed the school¬ 
room door; it was shut but a streak of light showed 
beneath it. He opened it and went in. Anna was 
sitting by the open window looking out into the 
night. A faint warm breeze flowed into the room. 


82 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Am I disturbing you?’" said Michael, hesitating. 

“Oh, no—do come in,” said Anna. 

He sat down opposite to her, near the window. 
After a moment’s pause, he said abruptly: 

“Have you decided to go back to Italy?” 

“Yes. With Gay. That makes it easier.” She com¬ 
pressed her lips so that her pure, pale face assumed 
almost a look of severity. “You mustn’t think it’s 
because I want to go away from here. That’s the 
part that hurts. The more I think of it the more it 
hurts. But I’m half Italian . . . and I want Italy.” 

“I’m glad you feel like that about leaving us,” said 
Michael, in an odd, constrained tone. “We shall miss 
you.” 

He felt now as if all the light and sunshine would 
leave the house when Anna departed. Some day, 
perhaps, she would return. It might even be that he 
himself would invite her to do so. But not now. She 
was too young. Her very youth and inexperience 
seemed to forbid any premature disclosure on his part 
of the feeling he had for her. Let her go, for a year 
—even for two years. Let her see that other world 
that was calling to her. He was glad, too, to think 
Gay would be there, so different from Anna in her 
fiery, eager youth, her flaming intellect, her uncon¬ 
ventional beauty. 

“I think you’re right, you know,” he added. “Even 
about Gay.” 

The seal of his approval counted for a good Heal. 
All of a sudden she felt what it would mean to her 
to live far away from Michael. All through her 
London life he had been there, comforting her when 
anything went amiss, always ready to amuse her, 
offering cold wise advice when she asked his opinion. 
To leave him would surely tear her heart in two. Of 
course, he must still regard her as a child—she had 
been the only child in that house for so long. He was 


MRS. NUGENT INTERRUPTS 83 

kind to her . . . but then it was his way to be kind. 

“I shall miss you,” she said tremulously. 

Michael glanced sharply at her, as if trying to 
read a deeper significance into those shyly uttered 
words. But Anna’s face was scarcely a more reveal- 
ing one than his own. It was pale and controlled— 
so much she had inherited from the Nugents—and 
to him it was charming as well as beautiful, with its 
fair English coloring, its Latin accuracy of line. . . . 

“You must write, you know,” he said, “not only to 
my mother, but to me. I shall want to hear what 
you’re doing. Don’t let’s lose sight of you. Of 
course I know it isn’t so very far off, but we’re none 
of us much hand at traveling. Six weeks in Scotland 
—that’s about the sum of it. Cannes for my mother, 
when she’s had a touch of bronchitis. I’d like to see 
Italy, but I don’t suppose I shall ever have time.” 

“Oh, you must come out and pay us a visit—that 
would be delightful. Why, I can ask anyone I like!” 

Suddenly the prospect of living her own life 
seemed quite enthralling. She could have Michael 
there as a guest. She longed to show him Sant’ 
Elena, the blue wonder of its sea and sky, the glanc¬ 
ing silver of the olives, the pink villa on its rocky 
promontory. 

“Well, anyhow, even if it never materializes it’s a 
dream to look forward to,” said Michael. 

“Shall you ever go to Mass when I’m not here?” 
she asked, suddenly. 

“I hope to go every Sunday. You’ve done that for 
me anyhow.” There was a new warmth in his voice. 
“Sometimes I hold my breath to think how easily it 
might have passed me by. I suppose everyone feels 
that who hasn’t been born to the Faith. It’s such a 
chance, isn’t it, if we come into contact with it at all!” 

Anna was silent. She had never heard Michael 
speak with such emotion before. 


8 4 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Just your coming—and my mother settling I was 
to be the one to take you to Mass. Why, I might 
have refused—it wasn’t always convenient—but you 
looked so lost and lonely I thought it was the least 
I could do for you. ... So you see I’ve got to thank 
you for it, Anna.” 

“Oh, then you really mean-” She stopped. 

“Yes, I really mean. I’m only hesitating because 
I’m such a coward.” 

“Oh, don’t; hesitate, Michael. When it’s so close 
—waiting for you. Such riches—such love. . . .” 
Her eyes were bright with tears. 

“Ah, my dear child, it isn’t so easy or so simple as 
you think. And just now it would be unusually 
difficult.” 

“Oh, but one mustn’t wait. . . .” she whispered. 

The door opened and Mrs. Nugent came into the 
room. No doubt she had heard voices—the servants 
were wont to say that she had ears and eyes all over 
her head, for all that she looked half asleep. 

“Why, Michael darling,” she said. 

She opened her eyes very wide indeed and looked 
at Anna. 

“Anna dearest, it’s very naughty of you to sit up 
so late. Why, I sent you up to bed hours ago!” 

Anna rose rather stiffly from her seat. A clock 
chimed eleven. But the time had passed very quickly 
indeed, and she had not said half what she wished to 
say to Michael. The thought that he had made up 
his mind to be a Catholic filled her with a strange 

j°y. 

“Anna was reading. I am afraid I interrupted 
her,” said Michael. 

For the first time some intuitive knowledge of the 
secret situation, scarcely as yet envisaged by the two 
principal actors in it, was forced upon Mrs. Nugent. 

' Subconsciously she opposed it. Michael and Anna! 



MRS. NUGENT INTERRUPTS 85 

But no—it was impossible. He had always been 
quite ineffusively kind to the child, and he had more¬ 
over shown himself decidedly in favor of her re¬ 
turning to Sant’ Elena. When she remembered this, 
Mrs. Nugent felt relieved. She wanted both her sons 
to marry “well.” Certainly not a relation—par¬ 
ticularly a Nugent relation—for she had a secret con¬ 
tempt for her husband’s family. And now that 
Michael was so soon to be made a partner in the 
firm he would be very well off and in a position to 
marry. It was a pity that he disliked dancing and 
indeed all amusements where women took part. He 
liked outdoor things—yachting, hunting, golfing, 
lawn-tennis, pursuits that brought him into contact 
with other athletic young men. It was absurd for her 
to feel any anxiety about his interest in Anna. Yet 
once or twice lately he had given evidence of it in a 
quite unequivocal manner. Athelstan had told her 
he had actually proposed that they should give her an 
allowance when she left them! 

These thoughts crowded confusedly into her brain, 
but aloud she only said: 

“Good-night, Michael dearest, I think I shall stay 
and have a little quiet talk with Anna.” 

Michael rose to his feet. He was very tall—-to 
Anna he seemed immense. She had to crane her 
neck to look up into his face. 

“Good-night, Mother. Good-night, Anna.” 

He went out of the room, closing the door softly. 
But Anna’s words were still ringing in his head, “Oh, 
don’t hesitate ... when it’s so close—waiting for 
you. Such riches . . . such love. . , .” 

Mrs. Nugent sat down upon the chair lately 
vacated by her son. 

“Dear me, how warm it is for the time of year. 
You must almost feel as if you were in Italy, Anna.” 

u Yes—it feels like sirocco,” said Anna. She bent 


86 ANNA NUGENT 

forward a little so that the wind might touch her 
burning face. 

Behind that suave friendliness she felt that Aunt 
Juliet was angry. Angry with both herself and 
Michael, but more especially with her. ... 

Anna still felt in every nerve Michael’s tormenting 
presence. She knew now what it would mean to leave 
him, perhaps never to see him again until he was mar¬ 
ried. 

“I suppose you’ve quite made up your mind to go 
back to Sant’ Elena since you’ve actually engaged 
Miss Lawton?” said Mrs. Nugent. 

“Yes,” said Anna. Then she added timidly, “But 
not if you’d rather I didn’t, Aunt Juliet.” 

“Your uncle and I both feel it’s entirely a matter 
for your own decision,” said Mrs. Nugent. “And 
about Miss Lawton—I spoke without thinking at 
dinner—I don’t see why she shouldn’t go with you. 
Rodney is in India and hardly likely to come home 
this year. I’m sure you wouldn’t try to do anything 
to bring them together, knowing what we feel about 
it, would you, darling?” 

“Oh, no,” said Anna, hardly knowing what she was 
saying. She had woven such beautiful childish 
dreams about these two brilliant beings, meeting each 
other again by the blue sea and among the olive 
woods and chestnut groves of Sant’ Elena. 

“And now about yourself, Anna darling. I think 
it’s only kind to tell you not to attach any impor¬ 
tance to any . . . any attention Michael may have 
shown you. Remember you are still to him the little 
girl, the dear little cousin, you were when you first 
came to us. I don’t suppose he’s even aware that 
you’re grown up. Girls of your age are apt to have 
sentimental ideas about any young man who shows 
them particular attention. That’s why I don’t want 
you to give a second thought to anything Michael 


MRS. NUGENT INTERRUPTS 87 

may say to express his fondness for his little 
cousin. . . .” 

Not a feature of the girl’s pale, immobile face 
moved. Her mouth was compressed and steady. 
She fixed her gray eyes upon Mrs. Nugent’s face and 
seemed to be listening with combined attention and in¬ 
difference. 

“Michael has never expressed any fondness for 
me,” she said at last, stonily. 

“Oh, don’t be offended, dearest Anna. I can’t 
help remembering that you haven’t got a mother!” 

“But I’m not in the least offended, Aunt Juliet. 
You have a right to say anything you wish to me.” 
Her smile was a little forced. “I don’t think, though, 
you need be at all anxious about Michael and me!” 

“Oh, don’t exaggerate, dearest Anna. I’m not so 
foolish as to be anxious about dear old Michael. 
He’s so utterly indifferent to women and girls. He’s 
not in the least like Rodney, and when he does fall 
in love it will be for always. But knowing how 
easily girls get sentimental—at least they used to in 
my day, and I don’t suppose they’ve changed so very 
much, although they do go in for all sorts of pro¬ 
fessions—I thought I’d better say just one little word 
to you. I shouldn’t like you to think yourself ill-used 
or broken-hearted.” 

“But Aunt Juliet—such an idea would never enter 
my head!” Anna defended herself warmly from 
what seemed to her an almost unwholesome charge. 
She did hope Mrs. Nugent wouldn’t say anything 
of the kind to Michael. “You mustn’t really be so 
anxious about me!” 

It was one thing to be conscious of a secret act 
of renunciation in returning to the Villa Caterina— 
a place that perhaps would never know Michael’s 
tall, active figure—but quite another to be informed 
definitely that there was nothing at all in that sweet 


88 


ANNA NUGENT 


concern for her welfare, of which daily she was be¬ 
coming more passionately conscious. Her love for 
Michael was a very simple thing in those days, but 
already it was capable of becoming complex and 
concentrated should anyone try to come between 
them. She thought of Gay’s fate with a little shud¬ 
der. 

It hurt her, too, to be told that to Michael she 
was still only the little girl who had come to the 
house nearly four years ago—it incredibly increased 
the gulf of years between them. Seven—nearly 
eight years . . . but to-night it had seemed for a 
minute or two that the barrier had been actually 
lifted and that they had talked together as two equal 
comrades. She seemed then to have tasted to the 
full the promised sweetness of his friendship. But 
destiny in the shape of Aunt Juliet had intervened. 
Anna felt a sudden anger with herself. Was she 
becoming silly and sentimental, just as Mrs. Nugent 
had feared she might? Was it apparent? Had 
she by some unconscious word or gesture revealed 
anything? ... 

Mrs. Nugent rose. She remembered Michael’s 
strange choice of literature, and she would have liked 
to question Anna on that point too, but she felt that 
the moment was not quite propitious. It would con¬ 
fuse the issues, just when she wanted them to be 
quite clear. And it was ridiculous to suppose that 
in the matter of religion Anna could ever have had 
the slightest influence over Michael. 

“Good-night, Anna. You quite understand that 
we shan’t offer any opposition to your going back 
to Sant’ Elena with Miss Lawton? Both your uncle 
and I believe in giving plenty of independence to 
young people—it’s the fashion, and one must go with 
the times. I hope some day you will marry, my 
dear. It’s quite the best thing. Marriage—a good 


MRS. NUGENT INTERRUPTS 89 


husband, who in your case ought to be a Roman 
Catholic—charming babies. . . .” Her voice as¬ 
sumed a dreamy tone as if she were trying to lift the 
veil from the future. 

She went out of the room. 


4 

Anna replaced her book upon the shelf, switched 
off the light, and went along the passage to her own 
room, with its wide view of the London sky, the 
distant houses in Park Lane, the great black masses 
off the trees that in the day-time were beginning to 
show a bright sea of emerald foliage. 

If she had ever thought of drawing back from 
that decision of hers about Sant’ Elena, she was 
aware now that it would be practically impossible, 
after that conversation with her aunt. The ground 
was cut away from beneath her feet. Michael’s dis¬ 
covered presence in the schoolroom that night had 
clinched her destiny. She was to be allowed to go 
with Gay. They wouldn’t try to prevent her. The 
sooner the better. She would cut the cords with 
brutal abruptness. She wouldn’t let things . . . 
bleed to death. And as if to conform this purpose, 
she sat down and wrote a little note to Gay to be 
posted in the morning. 

My Dear Gay: 

1 am going to Sant ' Elena next week . Can you be 

ready to start on Tuesday f All opposition is withdrawn. 

It will be so nice having you. TVith love from 

Anna 

She sat before the mirror, brushing her long fair 
silken hair. It lay like a pale golden fleece about 


90 


ANNA NUGENT 


her shoulders. Between the folds of it her face 
showed narrow and white, lit by the two big gray 
eyes. Although she did not know it, she looked like 
a spirit rather than a woman. 

She said aloud: “Gay must have suffered horribly. 
It was worse for her—she knew that Rodney loved 
her. But perhaps that made it easier. Perhaps if 
one knew, it would be easier.” 

The mouth twitched into a faint puckered smile. 

“I mustn’t be silly or sentimental about Michael. 

The gray eyes shone now, bright with tears. 

Anna turned away from the pale passionate face 
in the mirror, slipped on to her knees, crossed herself 
and prayed. 

On the following day there was no sign of Michael. 
Anna asked no questions, but she wondered if his 
absence would be a prolonged one. He had never 
told her that he was going away. Generally he 
would say: “I’m off to-morrow to Manchester or 
Birmingham,” wherever it might happen to be. 
Athelstan Nugent rarely visited the provinces now 
on business for the firm; he sent a delegate in the 
person of his son. Secretly he was proud of 
Michael’s looks, that touch of sleepy hauteur in his 
bearing, his wonderful capacity for detecting a weak 
or ambiguous spot, his iron will that no one sus¬ 
pected. Something too in his clear vision that re¬ 
volted against anything equivocal. Athelstan’s confi¬ 
dence in him was complete. 

But this time Michael had gone off without a 
word. Anna tried to think that this abrupt departure 
did not concern herself at all. Besides, he was never 
away for very long; he couldn’t be spared. She 
comforted herself with the thought. He would 
surely return long before Tuesday. . . . 


MRS. NUGENT INTERRUPTS 


9i 


At dinner that night, Athelstan said: “I wonder 
how Micky’s getting on.” He always called him 
“Micky” when he was unusually pleased with him. 

Anna looked up then. “Has Michael gone away, 
Uncle Athelstan?” 

“Yes—I got a telegram last night late—an im¬ 
portant job to put through. I nearly went myself, 
but on the whole I thought Michael would do it 
every bit as well. He’s got to learn, too, that it 
isn’t a cushy job to be junior partner in Nugent and 
Son.” He beamed with satisfaction.. 

“He won’t be away long, Anna,” said Mrs. Nugent 
in her soft, indolent voice. “Not more than a week 
or ten days at most.” # 

“While he is in the North he can do one or two 
things for me,” said Athelstan. 

Anna’s heart sank a little. For the first time she 
felt that he might not return before her departure. 
It had been planned then. He had been sent away, 
so delicately and tactfully, that perhaps he himself 
had no suspicion of the real reason. No fuss made 
—no opposition shown. They had learnt how to 
do things more diplomatically since the stormy epi¬ 
sode of Rodney and Gay. ... 

But he would certainly write. He had asked for 
letters—letters written to himself. She was glad to 
remember that now. 

Mrs. Nugent said cheerfully: “And now we shall 
have to think of getting Anna off, since she insists 
upon leaving us. It’ll be delicious in the South now. 
I shouldn’t wonder if we took a trip out next winter 
to see how you’re getting on. You could get rid of 
Miss Lawton, couldn’t you, for a few days?” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Anna dully. It would 
be delightful if you could come. I’m sure you’d 
like it.” She hardly knew what she was saying, her 
aunt’s words had disconcerted her so much. 


92 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Anyhow, Anna must come home every year to 
have a look at us” said Athelstan, genially. 

For his own part he didn’t in the least want to 
get rid of her. It was all nonsense of course, this 
scare of Juliet’s ^bout Michael. Nothing in it—and 
even if there had been, he was conscious that the idea 
rather pleased him than otherwise. Anna wasn’t 
penniless, and her being of another religion didn’t 
really signify. And he should like to feel that she 
was his daughter. She seemed already so very much 
one of the family. 

“I thought of going on Tuesday,” said Anna, with 
a sick sense of cowardice in not being able boldly to 
defer the date for at least another fortnight. “I’ve 
written to Gay.” 

“Tuesday — Tuesday — there’s nothing against 
Tuesday, as far as I can see,” murmured Mrs. Nu¬ 
gent, dreamily. 

There was something bitter in the thought of how 
completely and finally Mrs. Nugent had accepted her 
decision. Anna saw that she was not to be allowed 
a loop-hole of escape from her self-planned depar¬ 
ture. But she had always felt certain that Michael 
would be there to see her off, to make plans for 
meeting again in the future. Instead of which they 
had sent him away; he wasn’t perhaps to be allowed 
to see her again. Across Mrs. Nugent’s dreamy 
kindliness, Anna could discern something that looked 
like a streak of gray flint, reminding her of a stratum 
of invisible rock lying beneath a smiling and fertile 
landscape. 

‘‘Anna must go when it suits her. No hurry at 
all,” said Athelstan. He didn’t perhaps notice the 
streak of gray flint. It was only now and then that 
he, so to speak, struck it inadvertently with his spade. 
Just as when he allowed Gay to be dismissed without 
a word, knowing that Rodney loved her and had 


MRS. NUGENT INTERRUPTS 


93 


asked her to marry him. Perhaps, indeed, he knew 
it was there and so tried never to dig deep enough 
to touch it—realizing, too, how useless it would be to 
oppose it, this elemental thing of inflexible hardness. 

“I’m going with May to the Beavingtons’ to-night,’’ 
announced Mrs. Nugent, presently. 

She liked to be seen with her beautiful daughter, 
and to be told that she looked like her elder sister 
rather than her mother. You’d never think. . . . 
And in truth she bore her years well; her embon¬ 
point was not sufficient to disfigure her, and it 
smoothed her calm face clear of lines. 

5 

Anna was alone in the schoolroom sitting by the 
open window, just as she had been last night when 
Michael came in and sat with her for that beautiful 
hour. 

London was very still, almost breathless; the warm 
wind had dropped and a slight mist obscured sights 
and sounds. The trees in the Park loomed like 
gigantic formless phantoms. The lights along the 
Bayswater Road were faint and blurred. 

“Pm going—I’m really going,” she thought. “I’m 
not to be allowed to stay. They’ve taken me at my 
word. They’re insisting. ...” A sob rose to her 
throat. “I’m mad to make a fuss when I settled 
everything myself.” The mist seemed to become a 
little thicker so that it swallowed up Michael’s tall, 
familiar figure. He just wasn’t there. It was as if 
the principal and apparently immutable feature of 
the landscape had been ruthlessly removed. And she 
wanted him so very much. She was in reality just 
as foolish and sentimental about him as Mrs. Nugent 
had feared that she might be. So silly and senti¬ 
mental that she wanted to cry. 


94 ANNA NUGENT 

“How hateful it must be to fall in love,” thought 
Anna. 

For as yet she dared not examine her own feeling 
for him too closely. She was afraid of making un¬ 
pleasant discoveries. She wanted to think of him 
always and only as a dear, dear friend. 

It was quite true perhaps—to Michael she was 
only the little girl who had come to London, cold 
and strange and uncomforted, four years ago. This 
thought bruised her. 


CHAPTER V 

AT THE VILLA CATERINA 


I 

N OT even Gay Lawton, who accompanied Anna 
on that long journey, ever suspected with what 
a sense of despair and anguish the girl turned her 
back upon the home that for four years had sheltered 
her. 

If Michael had been there to say good-bye to her, 
Anna felt that she could have borne it. But not a 
word of or from him had reached her since his 
sudden departure on the day after their intimate little 
talk in the schoolroom. When he returned he would 
discover, perhaps for the first time, that she had 
left London. 

When she looked at Gay she thought: Weve 
both been treated alike.” But Gay had had the 
certain knowledge of Rodney’s love to support and 
sustain her in that evil hour. She herself had noth¬ 
ing. Her going could make no possible difference to 
Michael. 

Gay was little changed. She was slightly empha¬ 
sized, slightly more pronounced than she used to be. 
She seemed even more independent and competent 
than in the old days; mingled with her pride, too, 
there was a touch of hardness, almost of defiance, 
born of the time when she had been so signally de¬ 
feated by May Chingford. . 

Life wasn’t easy even for a woman with excep¬ 
tional brains if she hadn’t a penny in the world, as 
95 


9 6 


ANNA NUGENT 


Gay had long since discovered. One put by, of 
course, and then illness had a knack of intervening 
and swallowing up one’s economies. She had had 
a long illness in Australia, and though it had not 
permanently weakened her health, it had left her, for 
the time, almost without resources. That was why 
she had so eagerly accepted Anna’s offer to accom¬ 
pany her to Sant’ Elena. The salary was negligible, 
but she would have things her own way. She had 
always been able to rule Anna. . . . 

She looked after Anna during the journey with 
a competent, half maternal tenderness. Anna con¬ 
stituted to her the one frail link with Rodney. Rod¬ 
ney wrote to her still, with some regularity, but 
after nearly three years a change had crept into his 
letters—how indeed should it be otherwise? His 
new life claimed his time and strength, and he had 
developed a wonderful zeal for his profession. And 
she had not—she had never had—a place in that life. 
He had meant—oh, she was certain of it!—to be 
faithful to their love, but she was too far off. Her 
image had receded into the shadows, had lost its first 
emphatic outlines. . . . 

The spring was already far advanced when they 
reached Sant’ Elena, and Anna’s joy at finding her¬ 
self back there once more chased away something 
of the inevitable gloom of departure. She looked 
out as of old from window and loggia upon the 
beautiful Bay of Tigullio, with its fine headlands 
dipping into the sea, and the white towns clinging 
like patches of pearl and ivory along its shores. The 
white-sailed fishing-craft; the gayly-painted boats 
with green or scarlet oars that flashed as they dipped, 
releasing showers of diamonds; the orchards of olive 
and chestnut; the blue line of sea stretching away 
to Spezia, still offered themselves unchanged to her 
gaze. She was as astonished at all the loveliness as 


AT THE VILLA CAT ERIN A 


97 


if she had never seen it before, had never carried 
its remembrance in her heart throughout those years 
of London exile. 

In the garden the Judas trees were in flower, 
making soft crimson patches amid the emerald green 
and bright gold of the young leaves; a feathery bush 
of mimosa held out golden tassels to the sun; the 
tulips made rims of fire along the beds, and the 
Banksian roses and wistaria were in their full beauty. 
Great boughs of pine and ilex framed that blue 
picture of sea and sky with their lustrous green foli¬ 
age. The garden had run a little wild,' but its very 
wildness was beautiful. And the square pink villa 
had not changed. It stood there proudly on its own 
little promontory thrust into the sea, half hidden by 
its deep woodland of pine and ilex and stately cypress. 
The sound of the waves could be heard washing 
against the tufa cliff upon which it was built. To 
the west, at night the familiar lamp on the lighthouse 
at Sant’ Elena pricked the darkness. 

May came with fresh beauties to compensate for 
the loss of April’s lavish blossoming. The fireflies 
twinkled in the groves of bamboos and amid the 
tall, pale, proud Madonna lilies. There were won¬ 
derful dawns then, when the mountains emerged like 
gray transparent shadows stretching out to the great 
headland that lay close to Spezia and the island of 
Palmaria, that looked like a pearl dropped into the 
sea. And the sea itself was pearl-like, smooth, 
scarcely wrinkled, reflecting accurately the snowy 
sails that were poised upon it, and the green and 
scarlet of flashing oars.. The walls were crowned 
with masses of valerian in soft pink blots, and white 
stars of cystus. And the pink roses that Anna re¬ 
membered, showed their bright clusters against the 
pallor of the sea. The white blossoms of acacias 
and magnolias filled the air with almond fragrance. 


98 


ANNA NUGENT 


There was a festa in the town one summer night, 
and the port was illuminated. A long ripple of 
light outlined the arm of the little harbor with a 
fiery rim. The boats that swung in the shelter of 
the port were starred and strung with lanterns. A 
sound of music came across the water, faintly melan¬ 
choly. It was very calm, and the rippling reflections 
from the houses showed in bright ladder-like patterns 
of rose and gold in the black water. It was a festa 
of the Madonna, and all along the road her little 
shrines were illuminated, and decorated with flowers 
and lamps. Anna liked to watch the fishing boats 
swim into the harbor all festooned with lights. 

Later on there were fireworks of the terrifying, 
explosive kind so popular in Italy, lighting up the 
sky with their emulous stars, their thick cloud-like 
masses of luminous white smoke. It was almost as 
if the town had been attacked in an air raid, so 
continuous were the crashing sounds, the fierce, 
alarming explosions. 


2 

Anna knew that Gay was restless and discontented 
by her purposeless activity, her perpetual quest for 
something to do. It wasn’t enough for her, as it 
was for Anna, to look upon that blue world and 
enjoy its loveliness, to swim in that blue warm sea, 
and climb through terraced olive-yards to the heights 
above the little village. Anna was perplexed at this 
restless, moody, silent Gay, with her dark, beautiful, 
unhappy face. Her unfortunate love-affair, dragging 
on to what Anna feared would be a slow, miserable 
ending, had aged and embittered her. 

One day she looked across the table at Anna and 
said suddenly: 


AT THE VILLA CATERINA 99 

“There was nothing between you and Michael, 
was there ?” 

“Nothing at all,” Anna said quickly, hoping that 
Gay would not question her too closely on the point. 

For she never lost the hope that some day Michael 
would journey out to Sant’ Elena to see her. He 
didn’t write—why should he? They had never 
written to each other, and if Anna had written she 
would hardly have known what to say. She had 
sent dutiful letters to Mrs. Nugent, telling her that 
she was well and happy and hoped that she would 
visit her in the autumn. But there had been no 
corresponding suggestion that Anna should return to 
London for a few weeks. 

“I think he might have been more constant than 
Rodney,” said Gay, shrugging her thin high 
shoulders. 

“But Rodney is constant, isn’t he?” 

“He says he is, and I daresay he really believes 
he is,” replied Gay, evasively. 

“I wish he could come home,” said Anna. 

“He won’t do that If he did he would have to 
end it one way or the other. He could have got 
leave heaps of times in these last two years and a 
half. But he won’t face it. He’s like his mother 
—he’s awfully afraid of upsetting scenes.” 

Anna rose and went up to her. “Oh, don’t dis¬ 
trust him, Gay,” she said. Her face was troubled. 
She had the feeling that if she were engaged to 
Michael no bitterness of long separation could ever 
teach her to distrust him. 

“He hasn’t time to think of me. And he s far 
too fond of May not to listen to her in the end. 
She’s got an extraordinary influence over him.” 

She had a perfectly clear grasp of the situation, 
and did not attempt to deceive herself or to minimize 
the forces that were at work secretly to separate 


IOO 


ANNA NUGENT 


them. Rodney and May had been inseparable as 
children, and even since her marriage the old inti¬ 
macy had in no way diminished. Rodney and Ching- 
ford got on well together, and he wouldn’t be likely 
to forego all that their friendship meant to him by 
a rash marriage with a penniless girl. He was keen 
and ambitious now, realizing, perhaps, what an im¬ 
portant thing marriage was in a man’s career. He 
could no longer be the same heedless boy who had 
vowed to love her forever. Oh, it was all of no 
use! . . . She left Anna abruptly and ran towards 
the house. She burst into tears—those tears she shed 
so seldom, and which seemed to sear and scald her 
eyes. 

Since her return to Sant’ Elena, Anna had renewed 
her old friendship with Countess Selvi and her son, 
Benedetto. He was now a charming young man of 
twenty-two, very dark and athletic-looking. He fre¬ 
quently walked down the hill to visit the two girls, 
and often, too, they went up to the Villa Selvi to 
tea, and to play tennis in the evening. 

The Villa Selvi was a large and sumptuous abode, 
standing upon a hill above the town, in its own beauti¬ 
ful woodland of chestnuts, olives, pines and ilex-trees. 
The countess had lived there all through her brief 
married life and long widowhood. English by birth, 
she had been born and bred in Italy, and her point 
of view had therefore become almost wholly Italian. 

She was a faded blonde, looking younger than her 
years, the exact number of which she had never been 
known to divulge. Benedetto was a devoted and 
dutiful son, very Italian in his attitude towards 
“Mamma.” It was said that she had refused several 
offers of marriage on his account. Since her hus¬ 
band’s death the boy had been all her world. 

And although she had been born an English- 


AT THE VILLA CAT ERIN A 


IOI 


woman, the countess encouraged her son’s dutiful 
Italian attitude. She believed that it would save 
trouble later on when important matters, such as 
marriage, had to be discussed and settled. 

It was not long before Anna discovered, rather 
to her secret amusement and very much to her relief, 
that although Benny came over ostensibly to visit 
her and bring her messages from his mother, it was 
really Gay whom he wished to see. Anna was not 
at all sorry for this. The intervals between those 
Indian letters were becoming longer and longer, and 
even she had begun to doubt if the engagement would 
ever come to anything. For this reason she hoped 
that Benedetto would take a serious liking to Gay. 

Very soon Gay’s own attitude began to puzzle her. 
No one in Sant’ Elena knew anything of her secret 
engagement to Rodney Nugent, and certainly no one, 
to watch her with Benny now, would dream that she 
was otherwise than perfectly free. Presently they 
began to go about together, unaccompanied by Anna. 
They went for long walks down the valley and then 
up to the remote villages that lay half hidden in the 
hills. Sometimes they walked over the headlands, 
or spent hours rowing on that calm blue sea. Benny 
had a motor-boat of his own, and this was often in 
requisition, though it had to be used more circum¬ 
spectly since the countess was apt to question the 
engineer, especially if much gasoline had been con¬ 
sumed. 

Gay became much less restless. She seemed to be 
enjoying this new phase of her existence. Anna did 
not trouble to ask herself what the countess would 
think of it. Perhaps, indeed, she knew and approved. 
She showed, at any rate, no signs of interfering, and 
during the whole of that first radiant summer at 
Sant’ Elena, Gay and Benny were constantly in each 
other’s society. 


102 


ANNA NUGENT 


The days went by very quickly indeed, the weeks 
became months, summer gave place to a wonderful 
golden autumn. The hillsides flamed with the crim¬ 
son and bronze of the chestnut woods, the bright, 
spreading gold of the bracken. There were mists in 
the early morning, and a cool fresh nip in the air 
that was refreshing after the long weeks of uninter¬ 
rupted heat. Chrysanthemums, salvias and dahlias 
made brilliant patches of color in the garden, and 
on the terrace overlooking the sea. 

Anna had gone out on to the terrace one after¬ 
noon early in November. The day had been warm, 
and a rather sickly sirocco was blowing from the 
south. She had been alone since the morning, for 
Benny had come to fetch Gay in the motor-boat to 
go to Genoa. It was a long run, but the sea was 
calm; if the wind got up they intended to return by 
train. 

As she stood there she heard a motor-car drive 
along the road and stop abruptly by the gate. In a 
few minutes she saw old Francesca hurrying along 
the path, followed by another figure whom even in 
the distance she recognized as Countess Selvi. 

“Where are they, Anna?” she cried, without 
further preliminary. The question seemed to indi¬ 
cate a certain degree of anxiety and perturbation. 

“Do you mean Gay and Benny?” asked Anna. 

“Of course! Do you know where they are?” 

“They’ve gone to Genoa.” 

“And Benny said he was going over to San Ger- 
vasio for the day! I felt something was wrong, 
for Marchesa Verani said she was certain she saw 
him in the motor-boat this morning, going very 
swiftly towards Genoa. She said he had a girl with 
him—very dark with black hair and wearing no hat. 
She assured me they were quite alone except for 


AT THE VILLA CATERINA , 103 


the two men. I particularly asked if you were there 
—I was so sure you always went with them.” 

‘“Not lately—I don’t care for such long days. 
And I’ve been busy in the garden.” 

“My dear, do tell me who is this Miss Lawton? 
Is she a very intimate friend of yours? Have you 
known her a long time?” 

“She’s a friend of mine—I knew her in London. 
She used to teach me.” 

“She is here as your paid companion, I suppose?” 

Anna nodded. 

“Benny is falling in love with her. Never in his 
life has he gone off for whole days with a girl J And 
I can’t have it! I know very little of her, but what 
I have seen I don’t like. ... I do not wish to offend 
you, Anna, but there is a touch of the adventuress!” 

“Oh, I think you are wronging her,” said Anna, 
chilled at the words. Yet was it not true that, given 
the circumstances, she had herself felt puzzled by 
Gay’s eagerness to make these long expeditions with 
Selvi ? 

The countess’s attitude reminded her irresistibly 
of Mrs. Nugent’s when she had discovered her son’s 
engagement to Miss Lawton. There was the same 
inflexible conviction that it “wouldn’t do.” 

“Only, I don’t think you need feel at all afraid,” 
she went on, anxious to pacify these troubled waters. 
“Gay is engaged to one of my cousins.” 

“Well, all I can say is then that she has no right 
to be going on with Benny as she is doing. I am 
not at all accustomed to these English ways—I dis¬ 
like them very much. I am sure he doesn’t know 
that she is engaged. Is the marriage likely to take 
place soon?” 

There was a note of incredulity in her voice which 
did not escape Anna. 


104 


ANNA NUGENT 


“No, I shouldn’t think so. It’s all very indefinite. 
My uncle and aunt don’t approve of it. It’s been 
very hard on her to have to wait so long and in such 
uncertainty.” 

“Perhaps her patience is becoming exhausted,” 
said the countess dryly. “But I shall tell Benny that 
she is engaged. I consider that he ought to know it.” 

“Oh, don’t do that!” cried Anna, a little aghast. 
“Perhaps she doesn’t wish it. You see it’s all been 
so private and secret—she never tells anyone. I 
knew, because I was living there at the time. I didn’t 
mean to betray her confidence.” 

“I am very glad you told me,” said the countess, 
“and I think it only fair to Benny that he should 
know it, too. And I’m not going to let him marry 
a girl without a soldo!” 

Anna was, by this time, beginning to feel extremely 
distressed. She felt sure that Gay would be very 
angry with her for mentioning her engagement to 
the countess. And evidently she liked Benedetto, 
and perhaps she had purposely kept the information 
from him. She had certainly been much happier at 
Sant’ Elena since she had had this friendship to 
amuse her. 

He was not rich, but if he married with his 
mother’s approval there would be quite enough. Be¬ 
sides, it was known that he had expectations from a 
strange old misanthropic uncle in New York, a brother 
of the countess whom she had not seen for many years. 

“I have often wondered why you chose Miss 
Lawton to come here as your companion,” continued 
Countess Selvi, fretfully, “she has such a cool off¬ 
hand manner, such a strange way of speaking to 
people older than herself. English people have very 
odd manners sometimes, but I really don’t think she 
is quite a lady.” 

Anna felt indignant, but she said nothing, wisely 


AT THE VILLA CAT ERIN A 


105 


making allowances for maternal anxiety. She had 
herself watched the progress of the affair with some 
interest, never asking herself if the countess would 
be likely to approve of it or not. Benedetto was a 
young man of two and twenty, and therefore pre¬ 
sumably knew what he was about. For Gay’s sake 
she had felt glad, since it seemed more and more 
useless for her to wait for Rodney, wasting her youth 
as she was now doing. Besides, Anna was beginning 
to see quite plainly that Gay would never be happy 
leading this quiet life alone with her at Villa Caterina. 
She needed some excitement, and Benny had supplied 
it. Since he had come almost daily to take her off 
on some expedition by land or sea, her gloom and 
discontent had vanished. _ 

Often of late they had started quite early, and Gay 
had not returned to the Villa Caterina till it was past 
dinner time, and the lights were shining in the little 
port and the lighthouse on the quay was flashing out 
its friendly warnings to its bigger neighbor on the 
brow of San Gervasio. 

“And, of course, if she’s only amusing herself that 
makes it all the worse,” continued the countess. “I 
shall take him away. He will soon forget her. We 
can always go to our villa at Menaggio. 

Once she had hoped that perhaps Benny and 
Anna. . . . She had known the girl nearly all her 
life and had been extremely fond of her father—too 
fond, gossip said, for her own peace of mind. She 
realized that though Anna was so young, she was 
wise and dependable; she was a good Catholic, had 
a little money, and altogether would make Benny a 
charming wife. It was, indeed, in this hope that she 
had encouraged her son to go so frequently to the 
Villa Caterina, little dreaming what use he was mak¬ 
ing of his liberty. 

This affair with Miss Lawton must be peremp- 


io6 


ANNA NUGENT 


tarily stopped. She had not as yet remonstrated with 
her son, because it was only that morning that her 
suspicions had been thoroughly aroused, but she felt 
that the moment had now come when a parental re¬ 
buke was necessary. 

She had not cared very greatly for Mrs. Nugent 
on the one occasion when she had met her four years 
ago, but now she could not help feeling a strong sense 
of sympathy for her. Gay had evidently entangled 
young Nugent into an engagement which his parents 
had most wisely put a stop to. At least they had been 
able to stave off the marriage until now, and judging 
by what she knew she thought it most unlikely that it 
would ever take place. She had no pity for Gay—a 
girl who so obviously refused to learn her lesson! 

“Do you mean they always go off like this alone?” 
she asked, astonished at Anna’s calm acceptance of 
the situation. 

“Well, I don’t often go with them,” Anna con¬ 
fessed reluctantly. 

At first, it is true, she had always accompanied 
them as a matter of course, but one day Gay had said 
something to show her that her presence was no 
longer welcome to them, so that she had always after¬ 
ward made an excuse for remaining at home. 

“You should have told me, Anna! I hadn’t the 
least idea. It wasn’t friendly of you—you might 
have known I shouldn’t like it.” 

The countess had hardly said these words when 
the motor-boat appeared churning its way toward the 
little . landing-stage that belonged to the Villa 
Caterina. Soon the two tall forms of Benny and 
Gay were seen coming up the steps that led to the 
terrace where the countess and Anna were sitting. 
Their voices and laughter ceased abruptly when they 
became aware of the presence of these two ladies. 
All three faces seemed to betray a kind of astonished 


AT THE VILAL CAT ERIN A 107 

dismay, but Gay’s was the coolest of them. She ad¬ 
vanced towards Countess Selvi and held out her hand, 
that was tanned such a dark brown. The countess 
barely touched it with her own; she glanced at Gay 
without a smile. Benny looked slightly shame-faced, 
for he had been very careful to keep all knowledge 
of his flirtation from his mother. He knew that she 
didn’t like Gay and thought her too modern and in¬ 
dependent in her outlook. He was aware now from 
her expression, that she was extremely displeased, and 
a faint mutinous feeling stirred within his breast.. 

Countess Selvi rose. “I’ve paid you a long visit, 
Anna,” she said frigidly, “and Benny and I must be 
going home. I have the car here—you can come 
with me,” she added, turning to her son. 

She said good-bye to Anna, gave Gay the stittest 
of bows, and took her departure. . 

When they had gone, Gay flung herself into a 

wicker chair. . , 

“How long have you had that boring old woman 
here, Anna? What on earth did she come for? ’ ? 

It was evident that she suspected the countess s 
visit concerned herself. . , 

For a moment Anna was silent. She felt that when 
Gay should learn the truth she would be annoyed. 

She said at last: .' , 

“Some friends of hers saw you in the motor-boat 
going towards Genoa this morning.^ She thought, 
you see, that I always went with you.” 

Gay stared at her, and then gave a little short, 

mirthless laugh. ^ 

“What did you say?” 

“I told her that you were engaged to Rodney. 
You see, she was worried about you and Benny. 

Gay looked at Anna with an ugly light m her eyes. 
“How dare you interfere with me like that? What 
business is it of yours, or anyone’s, if I choose to go 


108 ANNA NUGENT 

out with Benny? You had no right to tell her I was 
engaged!” 

She uttered the sentences like a succession of pistol 
shots. All the time she was gazing at Anna with 
something like hatred in her eyes. 

“Oh, Gay, don’t!” Anna entreated. 

“You know I’ve never told anyone here of my en¬ 
gagement. You shouldn’t have mentioned it!” 

“I’m sorry I told her, since you didn’t want her to 
know. But she thinks that you and Benny-” 

“Benny!” said Gay, with a snort of contempt. 
“He happens to be the only man we know in this be¬ 
nighted hole who can speak a word of English!” 

Anna flinched. She had often felt that Gay 
secretly hated Sant’ Elena, and that at times she felt 
bored to death there. But to hear her call it a “be¬ 
nighted hole” filled her now with a kind of dismay, 
as if their very life together there were being 
threatened. 

“Do you suppose I’d go about with him if there 
was anyone else?” inquired Gay, scathingly. “Do 
you suppose I should be here at all, if you Nugents 
hadn’t treated me so shamefully?” 

“Oh, Gay!” said Anna, in despair. 

“And now I suppose that old woman will take 
Benny away and I shan’t even have him to go out 
with. He doesn’t know I’m engaged, and it’ll be a 
blow to him when she tells him. You’ve made a 
nice mess of things, Anna!” 

“I’m sorry,” said Anna, simply. She looked wist¬ 
fully across the Bay, beginning to be colored now 
with a faint rosy light, as the sun dipped behind the 
western headlands. The faintly-wrinkled silver sur¬ 
face of the water seemed to absorb those new delicate 
tones as if they were being melted into it. 

Anna was thinking sadly: “She isn’t happy here— 
she hates it. Of course, it’s dull for her. She’ll go 



AT THE VILLA CATERINA 


109 


as soon as she gets the chance.” She had so eagerly 
looked forward to living at Villa Caterina with 

Gay- • • • . 

“I never dreamed you’d give me away like that,” 
said Gay, rising and going toward the house. “What 
a little cat you are, Anna!” 

It was never quite the same after that little scene 
between the two girls on the terrace, although they 
soon settled down to conditions of apparent harmony. 
Anna never bore malice; she freely forgave those 
angry impetuous words of Gay’s and was sorry that 
her disclosure had had such immediate and drastic 
consequences. For the countess bore her beloved son 
off to Menaggio without delay. They had property 
there, and she was able to impress upon Benny the 
urgent necessity of visiting it. They intended to 
spend the winter there. Benny apparently accepted 
the situation with philosophy, and he made no 
attempt to see Gay again before they went. Perhaps 
the news of her engagement to another man had 
disillusioned him. Anna began to think there had not 
been much in the affair after all. ^ 

“Benny’s as bored with Sant’ Elena as I am, Gay 
confessed one day. “He’s always wanted to live in 
Rome or Florence. But he’ll be much more bored at 
Menaggio in the winter,” she added, almost as if the 
thought were a gratifying one. 

She, too, seemed to accept the new situation with 
calmness. She had always known that Countess Selvi 
didn’t like her, and, of course, she had secretly ob¬ 
served that that adoring mother had wished to bring 
about a marriage between Benny and Anna. Benny 
had indeed confided this to her in a moment of un¬ 
usual expansion. # 

The winter was rather a trying one for Anna. 1 he 
weather was very wet, though it was hardly ever cold. 
But the rain flooded the rivers, whose stony beds in 


no 


ANNA NUGENT 


summer were almost wholly destitute of water, and 
much distress prevailed in the neighboring villages. 
Old Francesca was ill, and her son Italo, who did 
most of the work, was obliged to ask for someone to 
help him. Gay was frankly bored by these domestic 
worries, and her restlessness and irritability grew 
upon her. 

It was a relief to them all when spring came, bring¬ 
ing with it brighter weather and lengthening days. 


CHAPTER VI 

NEWS FROM LONDON 


I 

A PRIL had come round again, and now it was a 
. whole year since Anna had left London. It had 
not been an altogether successful year, and she was 
certainly not nearly so happy living with Gay as she 
had expected to be. Gay didn’t seem to care for any 
of Anna’s friends in Sant’ Elena; she refused to go 
to the winter tea-parties, of which there were always 
a great many, and she never attempted to help her 
with any of the household problems. She made vari¬ 
ous attempts to find another post that would take hpr 
to a more amusing place, but nothing came of it. 
Rodney seemed to have given up writing to her alto¬ 
gether. 

Anna suspected that Benny’s cure was not yet com¬ 
plete, as the countess had not returned to the Villa 
Selvi. 

Then one day there came a bolt from the blue, in 
the shape of an unusually long letter, full of gossip, 
from Mrs. Nugent. At the end she added: “Rodney 
has come home—he arrived early in the new year. 
He hadn’t been very well, but he picked up quite 
wonderfully on the voyage. He is staying down at 
Wakebourne with May. Stella is there too—she is 
the prettiest little creature you ever saw. Just nine¬ 
teen, and full of charm and fun. I am so in hopes 
that something may come of it.” 

A sudden chill came over Anna. She had seen 
iii 


112 


ANNA NUGENT 


Lady Stella once, an exquisite little creature, rather 
like the star her name suggested, bright and glancing. 
She was full of gayety, and a kind of naive child-like 
aplomb, that would certainly have their effect upon 
Rodney. May would encourage the marriage; her 
little sister-in-law adored her, was constantly with 
her, and would therefore be ready, in any case, to 
regard Rodney with favor because he was her 
brother. Whether the Wendies would approve was 
another matter, but they were not too well off, and 
Athelstan had made generous settlements when May 
herself was married; it might be that this sordid con¬ 
sideration would have its weight. On the other hand, 
Stella was their youngest child, and the adored of 
both parents. 

“Why, Anna, what’s the matter? You look as 
white as a sheet! Have you had bad news?” 

Gay came into the loggia. She was wearing a 
white knitted jumper, made very loose, with short 
sleeves, and a short dark blue serge skirt. She would 
probably go out soon, as was her wont, and row for 
hours upon the sea. Since the fine weather had set 
in she had become practically amphibious, spending 
most of her time bathing and boating. The Italians 
were astonished to see the Englishwoman swimming 
in that cold rough sea, so early in the season. 

Her face was tanned now to a rich brown. She 
looked like a gipsy—a handsome, defiant, bold gipsy. 

“I’ve heard from Aunt Juliet.” 

“Well, what does she say?” 

Gay sat down. She had a dreadful presentiment 
that some ill news was going to be imparted. 

“Rodney’s come back. He’s staying with May at 
Wakebourne.” 

“Come back?” repeated Gay, incredulously. 

“Yes.” 

“I suppose Mrs, Nugent’s overjoyed?” 


NEWS FROM LONDON 


113 

“Yes, I think so. She says he hasn’t been well, but 
he’s better—he picked up on the voyage. He’s been 
back since just after the new year.’’ 

“Since the new year!” repeated Gay. She flushed 
all over her little brown face. She seldom wore a 
hat, and let the Italian sun do its will with her com¬ 
plexion. But the gipsy-like darkness suited her; it 
seemed to go well with that boyish athletic look, the 
muscular strength of her thin brown arms. ; 

“He never said a word to me about coming,” she 
said bitterly. 

“Perhaps—if he hears we’re here, he may come,” 
said Anna, with a hopefulness she was very far from 
feeling. If only Gay would see that there was no 
hope, and write to Rodney giving him back his free¬ 
dom, she felt it would have been so much more dig¬ 
nified. Not clinging like this to the last frail spar 
of hope. . . . 

“Not he! He’ll stay with May the whole summer. 
Happy endings don’t come off in real life, you inno¬ 
cent baby!” 

Anna had an inflexible belief in the constancy of 
love. It was a thing that grasped you, held you, took 
possession of you in a queer, forcible, fierce way. 
You couldn’t free yourself, even if you wanted to. 
But at least you could give back freedom to the one 
who desired it, even though you could not fling off 
your own chains that gnawed into your flesh. 

But she felt that if she said anything of this to Gay, 
she would only Jaugh at her. 

“You’d think he’d have written, wouldn’t you? He 
might have had a little consideration for the person 
he professed to love. But you see just how ignoble 
he is! Not to be trusted. Letting himself be ruled 
by May. ... I tell you he’s behaved to me like a 
coward—a faithless coward!” Her dark eyes 
flashed. “Oh, Anna—you saw him that night in 


ANNA NUGENT 


114 

London! He did care then, didn’t he? And I felt 
so sure of him. ...” 

“Yes, I’m quite sure he cared. . . .” She could 
see him now, holding out his arms to Gay with a ges¬ 
ture of tenderness not to be mistaken, calling to her 
in a choked voice, vibrant with passion. And Gay 
going toward him, to be clasped in those arms. The 
scene was etched upon her mind; she could visualize 
it in every detail. . ... 

Gay stooped down and kissed her, as if in grati¬ 
tude for that word of confirmation. 

Anna stroked her hand. “How miserable she is,” 
she thought. 

Gay went away abruptly, giving her short skirt a 
little swing. She was ashamed now of her outburst, 
ashamed, too, that she had disclosed so much of her 
secret bitterness to Anna. For it wasn’t the first time 
she had coldly and deliberately faced the probability 
of Rodney’s ultimate faithlessness. She had always 
been contending against forces stronger than herself, 
had known that the odds were against her, and that 
Rodney’s relations would certainly triumph in the 
end. May . . . she hated May, with her cold 
beauty, her heartlessness, her love for Rodney that 
made her wish to rule him. She might have known 
that May would ultimately defeat her. 

All of a sudden she felt that she hated this smiling 
southern place, with its sunshine, its invariable beauty, 
its blue sea and sky, its laughing light and water. It 
seemed to mock her with its joy and loveliness, and 
grace of blossoming. She would rather have been 
by the gray, cruel North Sea, where the shrill easterly 
wind flogged one’s face as with stinging lashes, and 
the tumbling waves all crowned with yellow yeasty 
foam looked fierce and wrathful and menacing. 
Here she felt as if she were the one tempestuous, de¬ 
fiant, unhappy thing. . . . 


NEWS FROM LONDON 


US 

Even Anna was calm. Yet, surely, she had not left 
London utterly without hurt. Gay remembered her 
childish, hero-worshiping devotion to Michael 
Nugent, who had been so consistently kind to her 
when she was a little lonely girl in that great strange 
house. Perhaps it had not been so very easy for 
Anna to know herself so utterly separated from him, 
however fraternal the relation between them may 
have been. Yet sometimes it hurt Gay to see Anna’s 
tranquil calmness. 

... So Rodney was back in England after these 
years of absence. She could picture him there, his 
arrival, the fuss they would make, and how he would 
love it all. Then his eagerness to dash off to Wake- 
bourne to see May, if indeed she had not gone to 
London to meet him. . . . Gay felt thankful she 
wasn’t in England to be hurt by his negligence and 
insulted by his apologies. She ran lightly along the 
path to the terrace, and then down the steep steps to 
the landing-stage below the cliff. She took the boat 
out and rowed far into the Bay, putting all her 
energy into those strong, rhythmic strokes. She 
wanted to exhaust herself with this violent physical 
exercise, so that she would feel so tired there would 
be no room for pain. For just now her body and 
soul were given over utterly to pain, so that once or 
twice, when she was well out of hearing she uttered 
little sharp cries like a wild animal caught in a cruel 
trap. 

Shelley had been drowned not very far from here 
—just across the Bay, beyond the great headland of 
Spezia. All the sailors here said that storms came 
up very quickly and with sudden violence, overwhelm¬ 
ing the frail little fishing craft with tragic unexpected¬ 
ness. It made Gay wish then that such a storm would 
spring up, defying that bright blue sky, and submerge 
her little craft. She toyed with the thought of this 


n6 


ANNA NUGENT 


beautiful swift ending, painless and kindly. She had 
always envied Shelley. ... 

For some weeks there was no further news irom 
England. Gay spent her time almost wholly out of 
doors, and Anna saw but little of her. There was 
some talk of Mrs. Phipps-Moxon coming to Sant 
Elena on her way home from Florence, where she 
had been spending the winter, and Anna thought, and 
even hoped, that she would once more be able to 
evolve some plan for Gay’s future. . Certainly she 
was unlikely to spend a second winter at Villa 
Caterina. She needed, as . one could see, some 
settled and strenuous occupation to which she would 
be compelled to devote both time and thought. Her 
present rather purposeless life, spent for the most 
part in violent physical exercise, was not good for 
her. She was restless, irritable, discontented. . . . 

It was a burning afternoon towards the middle of 
May. The heat was intense, even here in this spot 
so persistently fanned by cool sea-breezes. The 
acacias, with their white bridal robes, filled the air 
with fragrance. Magnolias displayed splendid 
creamy cups, like chalices filled with scent, amid great 
bronzed leaves. The oleanders lifted rose-colored 
clusters against the fierce blue of the sky. One might 
have thought that their fragile limp blossoms would 
have been burnt to cinders in that fiery heat, instead 
of which, the hotter it became, the more prodigally 
they flowered on the summits of their gray-green 
thickets. They were beautiful all through the 
summer, even when the other flowers had been 
parched and withered by the sun’s fierce caress. 

Anna was in the loggia when a telegram was 
brought to her. She had thought it too hot to sit out 
of doors on the terrace, even in the shade, so had 
taken her work and writing materials into the loggia. 
Gay had gone out for a swim, rowing the boat far 


NEWS FROM LONDON 


n 7 

into the Bay and then taking a plunge from it, as was 
her dangerous practice. 

Anna opened the telegram and, to her astonish¬ 
ment, read these words: 

Am coming out to see Gay prepare her for 
Rodney's engagement — Michael. 

Despite the heat outside, she felt that she could 
not remain indoors. She put on a hat, and, still hold¬ 
ing the telegram in her hand, went across the terrace 
and down the steps that were cut out of the tufa cliff 
to the landing-stage. She sat there in the shade, on 
the top of a flat rock, a favorite haunt of hers, and 
where she was little likely to be disturbed. The waves 
were breaking languidly with a full, sucking sound 
against the dark rim of the rocks, that looked rather 
like shaggy sea-beasts that had risen to the surface 
from some watery lair. The water was so close to 
her that she had only to stretch out her hand to re¬ 
ceive its cool caress. 

Far off in the silver haze of heat, Anna could see 
the white coast towns glimmering like ivory cities 
against a background of blue and green. Above them 
rose the great protecting wall of mountains, beyond 
which on clearer days she could discern the lofty 
silhouettes of higher and more remote peaks soaring 
towards the sky. Far off too, the great headland 
near Spezia thrust its bold arm into the sea, while 
the rocky marble island of Palmaria lay just beyond 
it, as if it had been flung off from the mainland. 
Northward the great violet promontory of San Ger- 
vasio formed with the other headland a wide and 
beautiful bay, safe, sheltered, and rimmed with lovely 
little cities each grouped around a slender medieval 
campanile. 

To-day the sea was calm and of a pale silver blue 


118 


ANNA NUGENT 


traversed by broad paths of light that looked almost 
like wide, white roads flung across it. 

The groves of pine and cypress and ilex in the gar¬ 
den above sheltered Anna from the sun. A cool wind 
blew from the sea, fanning hen 

Mingling with her intense joy at the thought of 
seeing Michael again was the pain and disappoint¬ 
ment she felt for Gay. However clearly she had 
realized in these past months that Rodney had grown 
weary of the engagement, Anna felt certain that in 
her heart she had always believed, and was indeed 
still hoping against hope, that he would eventually 
return to her. And now Gay was going to be hurt. 
The blow she had dreaded was about to fall. Hope 
that had been dying so agonizingly, so slowly in her 
heart, was to bleed to death no more. It was to re¬ 
ceive a brutal death wound. Rodney was going to be 
married. She would know soon how utterly he had 
ceased to care. When Anna read the telegram again, 
her heart stood still. She dreaded that moment of 
disclosure, the infliction of the death-blow. There 
had been so little real pressure brought to bear by his 
parents, however much Gay might blame them. Time 
and separation had done their own cruel work. If 
only Gay on her side could have ceased to care! 

But in her wayward passionate way, Gay still 
loved him. And again that scene in the schoolroom 
rose involuntarily before Anna’s eyes. She won¬ 
dered if Gay often thought of it. For child as she 
herself had been at the time, she felt that she could 
never forget it, or cease to believe that an emotion 
so sincere, so authentic, so passionate, could perish 
only with life itself. . . . 

How should she prepare her? She shrank from 
the task. Michael was cruel to have thrust it upon 
her. But then he did not know—how should he?— 
that since coming to Sant’ Elena the two girls had 


NEWS FROM LONDON 119 

drifted, in some sense, apart. Since the episode of 
Benny, they had no longer been such close friends, so 
intimate and affectionate. Gay was reserved to 
Anna. She had been angry with her for telling 
Countess Selvi of her engagement, and ever since 
then she had treated her with reticence and a cold 
caution. This alone made it much more difficult for 
Anna to obey Michael now. 

A white sail skimmed past, like a patch of snow 
against the blue. The boat was painted bright green 
and white, and the man who was sitting in it, handling 
the sails with such deft ease, wore a white blouse, 
shaped like a sailor’s. Over the sparkling expanse 
of water the sun was flinging millions of diamond-like 
points of light that stung and dazzled the eyes. 

Far out to sea, she could see a boat and near it a 
tiny dark bubble moving in the water. Gay was 
still swimming in the warm blue water. But soon she 
would be coming in. It would be terrible—that meet¬ 
ing, with this new knowledge cold and sinister be¬ 
tween them. Gay would be certain to discern that 
there was something amiss as soon as she saw her. 
Her intuition, her uncanny power of thought-reading, 
were as unfailing as ever. 

Above her head Anna could see the boughs of 
ilex and pine brushed delicately against the sky, and 
hanging over the balustrade of the terrace a rim of 
scarlet geraniums made a fiery patch of color that 
looked almost like a narrow rippling sheet of flame. 

If Anna had been a selfish woman, apt to surround 
herself with physical luxury and comfort, like Mrs. 
Nugent, to the point of excluding all things that could 
possibly annoy or pain or impair that comfort, 
especially such as concerned the anxieties and per¬ 
plexities of others, she would perhaps by this time 
have learnt to regret definitely the presence of Gay 
Lawton in her new life. But for her, that life would 


120 


ANNA NUGENT 


have been so tranquil. Gay clouded its calm and 
serenity. She was not an easy person to live with; 
she was restless, self-centered, critical, unloving. She 
hated the quiet life and the absence of all amusement 
and excitement. She was indifferent to the beauty 
of her surroundings. She did not attempt to study 
or read—she who had worked so hard at school and 
college, passing her examinations with such ease and 
brilliancy. No, she had simply spent her time waiting 
for Rodney, and now Rodney had definitely failed 
her. Michael was coming out to tell her so. 

The little tragedy of her love-affair had rendered 
her perverse and difficult, but Anna was far too 
sweet-tempered to resent all this. She had borne 
with Gay because she really wanted to help her. 
Gay’s angularity and unresponsiveness wounded her 
at times, but she always made abundant excuses for 
her. 

And in a sense she had profited by Gay’s example. 
Never, never, she resolved, would she let herself go 
in the way Gay had done, so that the best years of 
her youth had been made desolate by a man’s negli¬ 
gence and ultimate faithlessness. From this close 
contemplation of Gay, her growing hardness and 
fierce defiance, her hostility toward a world which she 
considered had treated her ill, Anna had learnt a 
singularly useful lesson. It had taught her to keep 
the thought of Michael well at bay. And because she 
had not dared to think of him either very often or 
very deeply, she felt that it would be all the easier 
now to meet him on terms of cool friendship. 

For were there not many beautiful things in the 
world besides love, which on the temporal plane was 
the most beautiful of them all? These were days 
when a woman’s life could be planned on free and 
large lines, could be filled as full of interests as she 
chose to make it. And then there was one’s religion 


NEWS FROM LONDON 


121 


with all its richness of thought and learning,, its 
heritage of wisdom, its mysticism and divine consola¬ 
tions and grace. And if that were allowed to play 
the part designed for it, the most important part 
in a human life, there was but little scope for pining 
and fretting over the temporal things one had missed. 

This alone, without the aid of Gay’s experience, 
would have taught Anna to endure whatever hurt 
might have come to her through the complete separa¬ 
tion from Michael. 

She would have found it at all times, difficult to be 
very unhappy here in Sant’ Elena., living in the be¬ 
loved home of her childhood, amid such wealth of 
radiant blossoming, surrounded by green vineyard 
and gray olive-orchard; the blue of sea and sky; the 
white flowers blooming in the dusk, distilling fra¬ 
grance; the glory of the southern sunshine. 

“It’ll be lovely showing it all to Michael,” she 
thought. “And he’ll understand why, all those years 
in London, I dreamed of coming back.” 

A boat had suddenly come round the point and 
was nearing the landing-stage. Gay was sitting in 
it, wearing a crimson wrap over her bathing dress, 
and a crimson cap on her dark hair. 

“Anna!” she called, in her deep, husky voice. 

Anna went round to the landing-stage to help, her 
bring in the boat, fastening it to one of the big iron 
rings. 

Then they climbed the steep, slippery steps up to 
the terrace. 

“Isn’t it a divine day?” said Gay, throwing off her 
cap and displaying her black hair slightly frosted 
over with spray. “I had a gorgeous swim.. You 
ought to have come.” She threw herself into a 
wicker chair piled up with cushions of various hues. 

“I’ve been a perfect beast lately, Anna; you must 
forgive me. I wonder you’ve been able to put up with 


122 


ANNA NUGENT 


me so patiently. But to-day I feel almost happy 
again—just as if something frightfully nice was going 
to happen to me. Do you believe in presentiments? 
I think they’re all tosh as a rule, but to-day. . . 

She fixed her dark bright eyes almost dreamily upon 
the perfect scene before her. 

Her face was turned a little away from Anna, who 
noticed, for the first time and almost with a pang, 
how sharpened the line was between ear and chin. 

“Well, something is going to happen, Gay. 
Michael is coming.” 

“Michael?” Gay repeated incredulously. 

The blood rushed to her face, darkening it rather 
than reddening it. Any word of Rodney’s family 
was welcome to her then; she had been starved for 
news so long. Since his return to England he had 
never once written to her. She believed that he was 
engaged in a conflict, and until he had either 
triumphed or suffered defeat, he would make no sign 
to her. 

But Michael? . . . He was coming to see Anna, 
of course. They had always been friends, and she 
had wondered sometimes why he had permitted such 
a long time to elapse without looking her up and see¬ 
ing for himself how she was getting on in her new 
life. Suddenly she envied Anna. There was some¬ 
thing steady and upright and very reliable about 
Michael Nugent which would encourage a woman 
to love him without fear—and without shame. . . . 

“I must say you don’t look overjoyed about it, 
Anna,” she said, gazing at her curiously. “Didn’t 
you want him just now?” 

“Oh, yes, of course I do,” said Anna, with a little 
effort, “it’ll be delightful having him—I’ve always 
wanted him to see the villa—” All the time she was 
thinking: “I can’t tell her—I can’t. Michael must 


NEWS FROM LONDON 123 

do it—he’ll be able to explain everything better than 
1 can ” 

“Why’s he coming?” inquired Gay. 

“To see us. . . .” said Anna lamely. 

“You hadn’t asked him?” 

“No—it’s his own idea.” 

“Is he going to stay long?” 

“He doesn’t say. But he can never get away for 
more than a week or two.” 

“I should have thought you would be more 
pleased.” Gay was struck afresh by Anna’s pallor, 
her lack of enthusiasm, just as if the news of his com¬ 
ing had displeased her rather than otherwise. “I al¬ 
ways imagined you were such friends, Anna. Don’t 
you really want him to come?” She repeated the 
question with a kind of insistence. It was as if she 
had begun remotely to suspect some ulterior and 
perhaps sinister reason for Michael’s visit. 

“Yes, yes . . . but I’d almost rather he hadn’t 
chosen just this moment. ...” 

“And why not this moment? It’s the only time of 
year when Sant’ Elena is bearable. He’ll love 
swimming in that warm sea. . . . What a queer girl 
you are, Anna! I’ve often thought that some day 
you and Michael. ...” 

And she looked at Anna steadily with her penetrat¬ 
ing dark eyes. 

Anna laughed. 

“I should like to see Aunt Juliet’s face! 

But Gay flushed again, this time with anger. 

“That boring, wicked, interfering, meddling old 
woman! I wonder her sons don’t rebel!” 

“Oh, don’t, Gay dear,” pleaded Anna. % 

“Wait till she puts her fat finger into your pie! 
said Gay with ironical emphasis. “She’s such a 
hypocrite too. Always pretending to be half asleep 


124 ANNA NUGENT 

when she’s really wide-awake^ and Argus-eyed, and 
plotting mischief all the time!” 

Anna was shocked at this unflattering interpreta¬ 
tion of her aunt’s character, the more so because 
there was a decided element of truth in it. Only 
Anna could never believe that Mrs. Nugent ever 
wished to harm anyone; there was no malice in her 
nature. She merely wanted to act as Providence to 
her three children, and even if they suffered now, she 
could always tell herself that she had only wished to 
save them from worse suffering in the future. 

“Don’t let her come between you and Michael, 
that’s all,” said Gay, warningly. 

Anna started a little. For had she not already and 
even long ago come between them? ITadn t Michael 
been swiftly removed from a scene that seemed to 
spell danger, while her own departure for Sant Elena 
was effected as rapidly as possible? When Anna 
thought of this, she wondered why Michael had been 
encouraged to come out on this peculiarly delicate 
mission. Perhaps it was because he would certainly 
return home as soon as it was accomplished. 

“I’m sure he’ll think you’ve grown ever so much 
prettier, Anna,” said Gay, regarding her with a sort 
of humorous though critical kindness. . “This place 
suits you. Besides, you were such a child when you 
left London—I daresay he hardly realized you were 
grown up.” 

She slipped her hand in Anna’s arm and they 
walked back to the house together. 

“He’ll bring me news of Podney,” Gay was think¬ 
ing. 

Yes, he would break that cold long silence that 
seemed to lie so heavil upon her heart, chilling it. 


CHAPTER VII 

THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


I 

M ICHAEL was to arrive early. Anna resolved 
to go to the station herself to meet him, and 
she purposely did not invite Gay to accompany her. 
She had to tell him that she had been a coward, 
that she hadn’t been able to prepare Gay. Always, 
too, she had had the feeling that Gay would bear the 
shock far better if the news were communicated to 
her by Michael. It was impossible, Anna felt, not 
to exercise some degree of self-control in the presence 
of that cold, slightly caustic manner, and under the 
gaze of those kindly but penetrating eyes. That was 
the best of Michael, she reflected; he strung you up 
to a higher pitch. He wasn’t one of those people 
who worked on your feelings, evoking a morbid senti¬ 
mentalism. You felt that he possessed an invincible 
courage together with immense reserves of self-con¬ 
trol and resource, and he seemed to impose those very 
qualities, though perhaps in a less perfect degree, 
upon those with whom he had to deal. Even Aunt 
Juliet and May hadn’t been quite free from this stern 
influence. That was why they so seldom took 
Michael into their confidence; they were unable to 
bear his disapproval. And with it all he was the 
least priggish, as he was certainly the simplest, of 
men. 

Anna was afraid of Gay’s violence of emotion, 
125 


126 


ANNA NUGENT 


perhaps of invective. She wouldn’t spare the 
Nugents. But Michael would control and check all 
manifestations of despair and hostility. 

The morning was cool and fine. Somewhere in the 
mountains rain must have fallen, so that the air that 
flowed down to the valleys and coast was refreshed 
and chilled. The great bold headland by Spezia was 
like a transparent shadow, and scarcely less shadow¬ 
like were the cool gray silhouettes of the nearer 
mountains. The sea was very pale, flat and calm; 
its voice came as a mere rhythmic whisper. The 
air was almost heady at that early hour, pure and 
buoyant, sweet with the scent of flowers on mountain 
passes, and brackish from the sea. 

Anna paced up and down the platform of the 
little station, waiting for the train from Genoa. 
There were few people there. A tall man, who 
looked English, in a gray tweed suit, stood beside a 
couple of suitcases and a canvas bag containing golf- 
clubs. An old woman shivered in a thin alpaca coat. 
Some porters in blue blouses loitered together in a 
group, talking in that violent, exclamatory, vociferat¬ 
ing manner which so often sounds like serious quar¬ 
reling to the foreigner. Their rapid speech and ges¬ 
tures—the flashing of their expressive black eyes— 
seemed to confirm that false impression of anger. 

The train appeared quite suddenly emerging from 
a tunnel. A door was flung open and a tall form 
leaped out. It was Michael. 

“Anna!” 

Michael was standing before her, and her first feel¬ 
ing was that he was ever so much taller than she had 
pictured him; he seemed to tower above her. Anna 
felt quite cold with excitement and emotion. De¬ 
spite all her resolutions the sight of him brought a 
joy that was almost overwhelming. 

She put out her hand and felt it grasped firmly by 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


127 


his. She hoped that he could not feel its involuntary 
trembling. 

“Have you much luggage, Michael ?” she asked. 

“No—a bag and suitcase. That porter took 
them. I say, what a jolly place!” 

“Oh, I’m so glad you like it. We can walk down 
to the villa if you’d rather. That man will bring 
your things.” 

They halted for a moment at the dogana, and then 
proceeded down the steep short hill that led to the 
shore. Anna glanced at Michael when they came in 
sight of the pink house standing on its own little rocky 
promontory embowered in glossy dark trees. “That’s 
the Villa Caterina,” she said simply. She felt as if 
some part, at least, of her girlish dreams were com¬ 
ing true, and that for months she had been waiting 
for this moment. Just to watch the effect of all this 
sweet pure loveliness upon Michael Nugent. 

H is face shone with pleasure. “Why, how simply 
topping! You’re right on the sea. One could almost 
take a header out of the window!” 

Both felt they did not want to speak of Gay. She 
was lurking like a shadow in the background, the one 
thing that wasn’t in tune with the scene before them. 
But the very thought of her, present to both their 
minds, seemed to dim in some sort the pure splendor 
of the morning. 

As they neared the gate and Anna was fitting her 
key into the lock, she turned to him abruptly and said: 

“Michael—Gay may be in the garden and if she is 
we shall meet her. So I want you to know that I’ve 
been a coward—I haven’t said a word to her. I 
felt I simply couldn’t. It’ll break her heart. You 
must do it.” Her lips closed firmly on the words. 
She had the feeling, too, that the Nugents must make 
the best case they could for Rodney. It seemed hard, 
though, that the disagreeable duty should devolve 


I2 8 ANNA NUGENT 

upon Michael, who of them all had been least in¬ 
volved in the story. , • 

Michael’s face was very grave. I shan t like it a 
little bit. Does she guess anything ? 

“I can’t tell. But Rodney ought to have written 
and told her plainly that he didn’t care any more. 
After all, it’s his affair! She must have been expect¬ 
ing it—she’s cried over the change in his letters—and 
now his utter silence since he’s been in England . 
She stopped short. When she thought of Rodney 

she felt indignant. . , , . 

“I tried to get him to write. But you know what 
old Rodney is. He hates hurting anything!’ 

“When he’s done nothing else but hurt her all 
these years?” said Anna, incredulously. 

“He was very young—hardly more than a boy. 
There’s that to be said for him. And Gay was older 
and very determined and capable—he hadn t much 

chance.” t . . 

“Who’s he going to marry?” asked Anna. iou 

never told me.” , 

“Oh, didn’t I? It’s Stella Belton—Ching-Chang s 
little sister. May’s engineered the whole thing, of 
course. She had them down at Wakebouine for 
weeks together. And they’re both awfully in love. 
The wedding is to be quite soon. In some ways she 11 
suit him very well, though she’s rather a baby. The 
mater,” added Michael, “is highly delighted.” # 
“Oh, why didn’t he write long ago and break with 
Gay?” 

“He just let it fizzle out,” returned Michael, “and 
he told me he didn’t think Gay cared any more.” 

“But she does care. More and more. It’s mak¬ 
ing her so hard and bitter. You’ll see how changed 
and thin she is.” ’ . 

It came into his mind then that Gay had been giv¬ 
ing Anna a pretty bad time. She, too, looked paler 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


129 


and thinner than she had done in London. Perhaps 
her cowardice, as she called it, had been founded upon 
a very tangible fear of Gay. 

“I’m not saying that Rodney hasn’t behaved like 
a cad, because he has,” said Michael. 

They entered the garden. His first impression was 
one of moving through a web of cool dusky shadows 
flung by the soft darkness of those close-growing 
groves of pine and ilex and cypress, amid which white 
flowers showed like pale and scented stars. Then, 
through a sudden gap in those flaming green boughs, 
he saw the sea, silver-pale with the morning mists as 
yet not quite lifted. And hanging over the sea, 
standing square on its rocky promontory was the 
little pink villa, Anna’s home, with its doors open 
ready to receive him. 

“I told them to bring coffee out on to the terrace,” 
said Anna. “We often have it there. Are you 
hungry, Michael?” 

“Yes,” said Michael, “I hate eating in the train. 
Let’s have it soon, Anna. And then I must have a 
bath as soon as possible.” 


2 

Before he left home, Mrs. Nugent had said to 
Michael: 

“I hope you’ll find that Anna is going to marry 
Count Selvi. I hear his mother is very keen on the 
match. And it would be so suitable—the properties 
are close together.” 

“Oh, well, I should think she probably will marry 
an Italian,” said Michael, in his immovable, cold 
manner. 

“Mrs. Phipps-Moxon says he’s a most charming 
young man. She met them at Menaggio last year. 


130 


ANNA NUGENT 


And then they’re both Catholics,” Mrs. Nugent 
added. She was never so apparently ingenuous as 
when she had something of real significance and im- 
portance to impart. # . 

Michael registered his intention of having a look 
at Selvi. He didn’t like the idea, still he had re¬ 
solved to keep to his original decision and leave Anna 
perfectly free for a whole year or even longer. She 
must see the world—must meet other men—he had 
a horror of anything like a “snap” marriage for her. 
But in these few months of separation he had thought 
a great deal about Anna, and sometimes he wished 
that that self-imposed period of harsh probation 
would come to an end a little more quickly. He 
hadn’t intended to see her again quite so soon, but 
circumstances had driven him to make this journey 
in order to come to Rodney’s assistance. It was so 
important that nothing of that old affair should reach 
Stella’s ears just now. She had a keen sense of her 
own importance, and she had always meant to make 
a far more brilliant marriage than this one. May 
was adorable, of course, but otherwise she didn’t 
care particularly for the Nugents. Then she had met 
and fallen in love with Rodney, and had even spent 
a miserable and forlorn fortnight believing that her 
love was not returned. May had come to her aid. 
They had always been as intimate as sisters, and 
May had elicited something of the truth from her. 
Armed with this weapon she had sought Rodney out 
and confronted him with it. 

Rodney was a little taken aback. He was always 
surprised when his philandering was taken seriously. 
Of course he had liked Stella—jolly little thing with 
all that red hair. But it was another thing to have 
May coming to him and calmly saying: “If you do 
ask Stella to marry you, Rodney, you needn’t be 
afraid of being refused,” 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


131 


“You know I can't,” he replied. 

May raised her eyebrows. “Why not?” 

“There’s . . . Gay Lawton.” 

“Oh, I thought that foolish business was over 
long ago. I’m sure Gay thinks it is.” 

“Why do you think so?” 

“My dear boy, you’ve been at home all these 
weeks, and she knows you have, and you’ve never 
even tried to see her. Mamma wrote and told Anna 
you were back, so of course Miss Lawton knows. 
How long is it since you last wrote to her?” 

“A few weeks before I left Bombay.” 

“You’ve made Stella think it was all at an end 
anyhow,” said May, “and you really mustn’t play 
fast and loose with her. Besides, it’s time you mar¬ 
ried, Rodney.” She paused, looking at him with 
her beautiful hard blue eyes. “Are you in love with 
Stella?” she asked. 

“Yes, I suppose I am. But I’ve been in love so 
often. First with Gay, and then lots of others. How 
am I to know this is different? I don’t want to get 
clear of one mistake in order to plunge into another.” 
His face wore an expression of extreme doubt and 
misery. “No one has ever seemed quite like Gay, 
you know. I wish I’d married her four years ago. 

“It’s a mercy you didn’t. She’s a clever little 
adventuress without a penny.” 

He flashed out then. “She is nothing of the sort! 
Why are you women so down on each other ? She 
wouldn’t listen to me at first. It was all my doing, 
and I made her care, too.” 

“Does she write to you?” ? 

“I’ve had one letter since I came back.” 

“Give it to me.” 

He took a flat leather case from his pocket, and 
extracted therefrom a single sheet of paper covered 
closely with Gay’s small upright scholastic handwrit- 


132 


ANNA NUGENT 


ing. To May’s experienced eye the letter looked a 
little shabby, as if it had suffered from much re- 
reading. She calmly took it from her brother, and 
tore it across and across until her hands were full 
of the little square fragments. Rodney thought, as 
he watched her, that there was something a little 
cruel, a little final, in the action. It was as if she 
were for the last time insulting Gay, crushing her 
under foot. Rut while it hurt him with an unexpected 
stab of pain, he was conscious too of something of 
relief. 

“What am I to do? Shall I write to her? She 
must be told, you know, if I’m to marry Stella. . . •’ 

“No, you mustn’t write. At least not now. We’ll 
consult Michael.” 

Michael suddenly confronted by his brother and 
sister at Lancaster Gate rebelled hotly against their 
proposal that he should help them out of the dif¬ 
ficulty. It was, however, obviously impossible that 
Rodney should go, for “that woman,” as May called 
her, would inevitably renew the old spells, and this 
time he would be powerless to escape from their 
magic. He was weak, and no one knew this better 
than his sister. It was the prospect of the journey 
to Sant’ Elena and of seeing Anna once more and 
ascertaining for himself that she was happy in her 
new life, that made Michael finally agree to go. He 
didn’t like it, of course. He knew Gay so very 
slightly, and always he had had the feeling that she 
had been very harshly treated. But May was able 
to persuade him that the whole affair had fizzled 
out long ago, and that the part he had to play was 
the negligible one of telling Gay that his brother 
was going to marry another woman. But he could 
not be made to see that Rodney had behaved other¬ 
wise than contemptibly and dishonorably. There 
should have been a definite rupture of the engage- 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


i33 


ment long ago. Instead of which Gay had been 
permitted to hope, to fear, and suffer suspense, for 
more than three years. He was sorry for Miss 
Lawton, and he felt a contempt for Rodney that 
seemed to make any renewal of their past brotherly 
intimacy impossible. 

Mrs. Nugent was already purring like a contented 
cat over the possibility of the engagement; she al¬ 
luded to it both to Michael and his father, but never 
in Rodney’s presence. One was never sure of Rod¬ 
ney, what he intended, how much he meant. Michael 
suspected May of encouraging the match with Stella 
Belton. Stella from childhood had adored her lovely 
sister-in-law, and very often one saw such adoration 
transferred in later years to a brother, or near rela¬ 
tion of the idol, who appeared illuminated by some 
reflex glory. Stella had probably been quite prepared 
to fall in love with Rodney; perhaps she had been 
prepared to fall in love with the idea of him before 
his appearance in the flesh. And he was sufficiently 
handsome and attractive, in his bright engaging way, 
to satisfy a young girl’s ideal. 

Both in London and at Wakebourne they were 
thrown constantly into each other’s society. When 
they were all in London, Michael had felt oddly 
enough as one left out in the cold, just as though 
he hadn’t been “smart” enough for that gay worldly 
milieu. He had drifted a little apart, and had be¬ 
come, too definitely perhaps, the hard-working busi¬ 
ness man, who, against his will, had been thrust into 
the position of money-maker. 

It was prospering, too, that work of his, but inas¬ 
much as it brought him no nearer to Anna, he hated 
and despised it. , 

At first he had refused point-blank to go to Sant 
Elena. He wouldn’t hear of it. His eyes flashed, 
but his rare anger evoked no corresponding emotion 


134 


ANNA NUGENT 


in May. Like her mother she seldom permitted emo¬ 
tions of any kind to sway her; they were aging, 
unnecessary things, deleterious to complexion and 
expression. She only smiled and said: 

“Darling Michael, of course you’re going to help 
Rodney. Marrying Stella will be the making of him, 
and old Wendle has lots of influence at the War 
Office. The poor child is desperately in love with 
him, too, and Miss Lawton must have guessed the 
truth ages ago. We can’t let him miss this brilliant 
marriage—it’s such a help to a man in his career to 
have just the right sort of wife. ...” 

“And you’re sure she is the right sort of wife for 
him?” inquired Michael, caustically. “She seems to 
me about as empty-headed as they make ’em!” 

“Oh, Stella isn’t empty-headed—she’s got rather 
a babyish manner, that’s all,” said May. “Ching- 
Chang’s awfully keen about it too, so you must really 
help to pull it off.” 

Michael was silent. He couldn’t help seeing the 
affair from the point of view of expediency, but 
neither could he blind himself to the fact that his 
brother had treated Miss Lawton in a caddish, dis¬ 
honorable manner. She must have suffered—even if 
she wasn’t still suffering—and now he was asked to 
go and kill any little hope that might still linger 
in her heart. If it hadn’t meant going to Sant’ Elena 
and seeing Anna again, he would have utterly re¬ 
fused to interfere. 

In the old days he had been devoted to Rodney, 
as to a slightly wayward, not very dependable, 
younger brother whom he had frequently had to 
help out of more or less serious scrapes. And even 
lately he had sent large sums to him in India, when 
Athelstan’s patience was exhausted, to tide him over 
pressing financial crises. He felt he had done a 
good deal for him in one way and another, and that 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


135 


now the “thing too much” had been demanded of 
him. He hated the thought of being the bearer of 
ill news. Stella was a charming child, but she hadn’t 
the force of character, the grit and intellect of the 
older girl. 

“You’ve always been so good to Rodney, you 
mustn’t fail him now,” murmured May, kissing the 
top of his dark head, “just when he needs your help 
so badly.” 

She slipped out of the room then, feeling that 
she had said enough. But when she saw Rodney that 
evening she said: “I think it’ll be all right. Michael’s 
sure to go. Partly to see Anna, and partly because 
he wants a holiday.” 

She proved to be right, for in the end Michael went. 


3 

As the ambassador of ill news, Michael felt his 
position keenly during the first day of his visit to 
the Villa Caterina. His intense desire to perform 
the odious task as kindly as possible gave an added 
touch of friendliness to his manner when he addressed 
Gay, and he could not help feeling that this alone 
would give her a perfectly wrong impression of the 
family attitude towards her, and even fan any linger¬ 
ing hope she might still cherish. Man-like, he de¬ 
ferred the evil hour of disclosure. 

Gay from the first was, however, obviously on 
the defensive with Rodney’s brother. She believed 
that he had come principally to see Anna, and yet 
she could not help feeling that he had some powerful 
secondary motive, not unconnected with herself. 
This visit of his was so unexpected that it could not 
help appearing slightly mysterious. 

Michael privately thought that Gay looked charm- 


ANNA NUGENT 


136 

ing and the picture of health, despite the fact that 
she was thinner and that, if one examined her face 
closely, there were suggestions of suffering that gave 
her an almost careworn appearance. But though she 
looked older, her beauty was not really impaired. 
She still had that touch of fierceness, as of some wild 
thing that had been caught and forcibly trained to 
the exigencies of civilization, with her keen dark 
eyes, black hair, and brown face and hands. When 
he saw her, Michael wished that Rodney could have 
stopped in Italy on his way home. There would 
have been no complications about Stella then; he 
would have appeared in England as an openly en¬ 
gaged man. The sight of Gay would surely have 
revived his ancient love. She was so little changed, 
and her individual charm seemed to have deepened. 
She was capable, independent, self-reliant—qualities 
that had always appealed to Rodney since he was 
so destitute of them himself. She was far more 
suited to him than that child Stella, with her babyish 
ways, her big innocent eyes, her tumbled red hair, 
and dainty, delicate apparel. 

Michael was bitterly aware that Anna had joined 
in the family conspiracy to thrust the whole onus of 
the disagreeable task upon his shoulders. He was 
in a world of cowards, and he wasn’t sure of his 
own nerve. It wouldn’t be easy to tell Gay, and 
when she did know, some of the brunt of her suf¬ 
fering would surely fall upon Anna. He didn’t want 
to expose Anna to that kind of thing. He was 
secretly a little afraid of the two girls, and wondered 
if their friendship would survive the fiery test to 
which it was to be exposed. For after .all, Anna 
was a Nugent, a cousin of the chief delinquent in 
the little drama; she could not detach herself utterly 
from her own family, and espouse Gay’s cause whole¬ 
heartedly. . . . 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


i37 


During his long journey he had carefully consid¬ 
ered all that he had to say, point by point. It was 
none of it easy. First, he would have to tell Gay 
that his parents would never consent to Rodney’s 
marrying a Catholic—they weren’t prepared to admit 
that kind of complication into the family except under 
conditions to which she was little likely, as a Catholic, 
to accede. This seemed to him almost humorous, 
considering that his whole being was gradually be¬ 
coming absorbed by Catholicism, and to its study he 
devoted all his leisure hours, even depriving himself 
of necessary sleep to accomplish this. 

Secondly, he had to tell her what was even more 
difficult, that Rodney’s feelings during the years of 
separation had undergone a change, and this was 
scarcely astonishing, since their initial acquaintance 
had been so brief and slender a thing. Rodney had 
been very young at the time, and some fluctuation 
of the kind was natural. Michael hoped to be able 
to induce Gay to look at the matter quite sensibly 
from these standpoints, but when he saw her again 
the hope dwindled a little. He was inwardly con¬ 
vinced that she hadn’t changed, that she was one of 
the faithful ones. Perhaps she had given her love 
once for all. If so, she wouldn’t care at all about 
Rodney’s career and prospects; she would have been 
quite happy living in poverty with him so only that 
they might be together. She was probably quite 
modern in her contempt for the old standards, for 
the arguments prompted by expediency and prudence. 
She wouldn’t, in short, consider what might be the 
Nugents’ feelings on the subject . . . she might even 
put up a last fight—unpleasant thought! When he 
saw her again, tall, active, with her superb physique 
and tireless energy, he felt that she would have been 
only too glad to cook and scrub and sew for Rodney; 
she didn’t look like a woman who minded hardship 


138 


ANNA NUGENT 


or was afraid of manual work. Michael, realizing 
all this, felt his heart sink within him at the unpleas¬ 
ing task of “breaking it” to Gay Lawton. 

They were sitting at breakfast that first morning 
on the terrace, Mien Gay appeared from the steps 
that led up from the sea. She was draped in her 
big crimson wrap, and on her head she wore a bathing 
cap of the same hue. These twin patches of color 
looked almost fiery in that early-morning world of 
tranquil silver and gray and deep cold green. A 
few wisps of dark hair peeped out from beneath 
the cap, glistening with drops of salt water. She 
had been swimming in the sea. Knowing that 
Michael was expected at an early hour, she had felt 
unusually restless, a kind of excitement and suspense 
at the thought of seeing Rodney’s brother had taken 
possession of her, so she had risen early too, and had 
rowed the boat far out into the Bay before taking 
her plunge. Gay was a fearless, practiced swimmer, 
but Anna often felt a little alarmed when she went 
off like that alone, unaccompanied by a boatman. 

Michael and Anna both sprang up, and Gay came 
toward them, tall and slender in her rough wrap, 
with her bare feet thrust into white bathing shoes. 
Her uncovered arms were spare but strong and 
muscular, and her face was all aglow. 

“I hope you had a good journey,” she said to 
Michael in her confident way. 

“Very, thanks,” said Michael, slightly embarrassed 
at the thought of the object of that journey.. 

“Don’t wait breakfast for me, Anna,” said Gay, 
moving toward the house. 

As she walked away she thought: “He’s more 
like Rodney than I thought. Their eyes and voices 
are alike. But one would trust Michael more, I 
think, and he would be harder, too, if one offended 
him.” These reflections stabbed her as if with an 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


m 


unwelcome truth. Rodney wasn’t to be trusted, and 
in the hands of some people—-of May for instance 
—he was like wax, soft and malleable. “And when 
one’s a Catholic that puts the finishing touch to one’s 
ineligibility. It’s time people left off treating us like 
pariahs. Here it’s all so different—one can see how 
glad Countess Selvi would be if Benny were to marry 
Anna,” she thought bitterly. 

Michael followed that glowing crimson figure with 
his eyes. 

“She’s looking charming,” he said. “Rodney 
should have come himself. We shouldn’t have heard 
anything about Stella then. It’s half May’s doing, 
as it is. She’s backing Stella, who worships her. 
Gay’s ever so much more suited to be Rodney’s wife 
—she’s got all the qualities he lacks. And I believe 
he’d have been happier with her, too.” 

The crimson patch disappeared into the soft gray- 
green shadows. They both felt that Gay must know 
they were speaking and thinking of her. In her 
manner to Michael, frank as it had been, one could 
detect a touch of defiance. Anna said quietly: 

“Do you think she looks well? I’m afraid she 
isn’t happy here.” She made the confession almost 
reluctantly. 

Michael did not answer. If it had not been for 
Anna, he felt that he would have quitted the Villa 
Caterina there and then. This strange happiness he 
was now experiencing was to be very heavily paid 
for. But when he looked at Anna, he felt that it 
was worth almost anything to be standing by her side 
in her own home, gazing with her upon the dreamy 
loveliness of the scene. 

“I suppose you’ve found lots of old friends here?” 
he said, remembering the Selvi family, and his 
mother’s ominous words concerning Anna and Benny. 

“A few Italians. There aren’t many of the Eng- 


140 


ANNA NUGENT 


lish families left, only a lot of new people one had 
never heard of before.’’ 

“They’ve looked you up, I suppose—these 
Italians?” 

“Countess Selvi came to see me at once. She was 
the only one I ever knew at all well; she was a 
friend of my father’s.” Anna smiled, thinking of 
that last hectic interview with the countess. She 
would have told Michael about it, but she felt that 
the little episode might give him an unfavorable im¬ 
pression of Gay. 

“There’s a son, isn’t there?” asked Michael. 

“Yes—Benedetto. He’s half English and half 
Italian, just as I am, but you’d never think it to look 
at him—he’s typically Italian.” 

“You look English out here, but in London I used 
to think you looked Italian,” said Michael. 

“Oh, but that’s nearly always the way with people 
of mixed nationalities—they never look quite at home 
anywhere.” She smiled. “I should like you to have 
seen the Selvis, Michael, but they aren’t here just 
now and I don’t quite know when they’re coming 
back.” 

Michael felt inexpressibly cheered to think they 
were not at Sant’ Elena, and that their return was 
uncertain. Having disposed of this question he re¬ 
turned to his breakfast, thinking it was the most 
delicious meal he had ever eaten in his life. The 
rolls and toast were so crisp and golden; the coffee 
was strong and aromatic, the butter fresh and de¬ 
licious. A great bowl of crimson oleanders stood 
in the middle of the table, and near it was a flat 
dish of Venetian glass filled with peaches and figs and 
apricots. 

Gay came out presently and joined them, dressed 
all in white with her dark hair uncovered. She spoke 
and ate little during the meal, and it seemed that 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


141 

something of her hostility toward the Nugents was 
expressed in her silence. Why had Michael come? 
To see Anna? To consult her about some business? 
But surely that could have been done by letter. Yet 
business played a formidable part, as she knew, in 
the lives of all the Nugents. 

All the time she was trying to thrust the unwelcome 
conviction from her that his coming concerned her¬ 
self. It wasn’t to see Anna at all, though that was 
evidently a great pleasure to him. She had never 
seen Michael look quite so radiant before. Generally 
he was grave and silent. 

As soon as she had finished her coffee, she lit a 
cigarette and went back to the house. 


4 

“What am I to do,” said Michael, “if she persists 
in avoiding us like this?” 

“You must let her get used to the idea of your 
being here, first,” said Anna. “Perhaps she’s a little 
suspicious. She tried so hard to find out why you 
were coming and I hadn’t the courage to tell her. 
But later you might insist upon speaking to her.” 

“Might I? I don’t feel at present as if I ever 
could. . . .” He felt Gay’s mood to be hostile and 
defiant. 

“She’s really, if you come to think of it, been very 
wonderful all this time,” said Anna. 

“You’re as great friends as ever?” 

“Well, it’s different now. I’m not her pupil, you 
see; we’re more equal. But Gay’s easily offended— 
it hasn’t always been quite smooth. You mustn’t 
think though that I’m not very, very fond of her, 
because I am.” 

She was suddenly glad to think that Countess Selvi 
was away from home. She might have spoken to 


142 


ANNA NUGENT 


Michael about the undesirability of her having Gay 
there as a companion. And Anna didn’t want 
Michael to hear that unpleasant word adventuress 
flung at Gay Lawton. The countess disliked her, 
and she might have revealed something of that epi¬ 
sode in which her son had played a part, when to 
an onlooker Gay had deliberately set out to capture 
the affection of this young man, never revealing that 
she was engaged to be married to someone else. 
No, she felt that any revelations of the kind would 
prejudice Michael against Gay, and make him feel 
that she wasn’t so greatly to be pitied after all. . . . 

“I wish I knew what she felt about it,” said 
Michael. 

“I’m sure she hopes that it’ll come all right. I 
think it would be hard to give up that kind of hope,” 
said Anna. 

“Would it?” said Michael, looking at her. 

Once he had thought, too, that she herself might 
have cherished some such secret hope, but he had 
rejected the idea as egoistic and complacent. Yet he 
had so nearly said something to Anna during their 
last interview before he left London. All his reso¬ 
lutions had threatened to break down before the 
prospect of that immediate and indefinite separation. 
His mother had come in, obviously displeased at 
finding him in the schoolroom, and he had often 
wondered what she had said to Anna during their 
subsequent interview. He himself had been packed 
off on some urgent business the following day, and 
he had returned home only to find Anna already 
gone. But so nearly had he spoken to her on that 
last occasion, that he believed she must have guessed 
at least something from his manner and voice. She 
was surely too sensitive, too discerning, not to have 
been aware of the emotion that had possessed him 
then. . . . 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


143 


Her frank and friendly reception of him this 
morning had done much to quench that vague hope 
—she was so obviously thinking so much more about 
Gay than of her own little affairs. She was changed, 
he thought, even in this comparatively short interval; 
she was so much less of a girl, so much more of a 
woman. Her present responsibilities as head of the 
little household at Villa Caterina had given her, as 
it were, a new assurance and poise that intensified 
that rare charm of hers. She looked serenely happy 
and contented, but as if her new life had brought 
her peace rather than ecstatic joy. 

“She’ll stay on here, I suppose?” he said. 

“I suppose so. She’s got nowhere really to go.” 

“You won’t mind?” 

“Oh, no, I shall be glad. I’m fond of her, you 
see.” 

“But it’ll be more difficult now, perhaps? I feel 
as if we were thrusting too much upon you.” 

“I can’t expect to have things quite smooth, when 
everything is so perfect,” she said, with a glance at 
that delicately-colored scene before her. 

“Wise child!” said Michael, his eyes full of the 
old ironical laughter. “But the externals here must 
make up for a good deal, I’m bound to admit.” 
He let his glance rest for a moment upon the wide, 
pale Bay, now beginning to be colored like a delicate 
turquoise, the dipping headlands, the lovely outlines 
and hues of the mountains. 

“Yes, they are wonderful,” agreed Anna, simply. 

She felt as if, during all these past months she 
had been living here, patiently, quietly, as in some 
beautiful dream, waiting for something to happen 
that should arouse and awaken her. And now she 
was aware that Michael’s coming had achieved this. 
She had really been waiting for him, and she realized 
with a stab of pain that when he went away the 


ANNA NUGENT 


144 

place would ever after seem less complete) less per¬ 
fectly beautiful than it had done in the past. It 
had always wanted his presence to give it life and 
meaning. Her heart had been waiting for him, 
scarcely aware of its own hunger. ... 

She was afraid that when once he had revealed 
the object of his coming to Gay, he would hurry away 
from Sant’ Elena, and perhaps only think of it in 
future as a place where he had once had to discharge 
a highly disagreeable task. He would surely be 
thankful to leave what had been the scene of some¬ 
thing so unpleasant and distasteful. And Anna 
dreaded that moment when she should find herself 
once more alone with Gay. While Michael remained 
there she knew enough of Gay to feel sure that she 
would be hard and controlled, pretending perhaps 
not to care, so that Rodney should never have the 
satisfaction of knowing her hurt. But after Michael 
had gone, there would be the inevitable break-down, 
the revelation of all that pent-up bitterness and anger 
and grief. The future, thus visualized, seemed gray 
and forbidding. It even seemed to Anna that she 
might love Gay a little less for thus marring the 
harmony of her own life. 

Gay did not appear at luncheon. She left a little 
note for Anna: 

I*m taking the boat across to San Gervasio. I 
know you and Michael will have lots to talk about . 

Anna found the brief missive on her dressing-table 
when she went up to her room. 

Michael had a prolonged swim in the Bay that 
morning while Anna occupied herself indoors. She 
was vaguely anxious at Gay’s sudden whim to row 
herself round to San Gervasio. She was quite fear¬ 
less, and rowed well, but even on calm days there 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


H5 


was always a roughish bit of water where the head¬ 
lands dipped their bold arms into the sea. Probably 
Gay would be gone all day, avoiding Michael with 
a cold determination, as though she half suspected 
that if she gave him an opportunity he would speak 
to her about Rodney. 

5 

Gay took the little blue and white boat with its 
bright blue oars, and rowed away from the wooden 
landing-stage at the foot of the cliff below the Villa 
Caterina. She tugged away vigorously, afraid that 
Anna would see her and try to stop her from going, 
with some well-meant affectionate assurance that they 
wanted her company that day. 

Gay liked the strenuous exertion of pulling against 
the tide, the response of her muscles, the feeling of 
iron strength that was hidden in her body. But the 
tears streamed unchecked down her face as she 
thought of Rodney, and then of Michael and Anna. 

“They won’t miss me,” she thought, with bitter¬ 
ness. “They’ll be glad really, though Anna’ll pretend 
she wasn’t when I go back.” 

Michael had something to tell her, she was in¬ 
tuitively certain of that. He must, sooner or later, 
make some allusion to Rodney. And she didn’t want 
to hear anything. If Rodney had something to say 
let him come to tell her himself. And, in any case, 
it hurt her to be the spectator of Anna’s tranquil 
happiness. . . . Michael’s love for Anna was ap¬ 
parent to her. She had always suspected it, and now 
it stood clearly revealed, a bright, beautiful thing. . . . 

Anna was destined for happiness, for tranquil 
enjoyment, for the comfort of material things with¬ 
out anxiety for the future. If she married Michael 
she would be a rich woman. Gay contrasted her 


ANNA NUGENT 


146 

friend’s lot with her own. She had nothing, she 
was penniless, dependent upon her brains and hands 
for a living. If she wanted anything she had to 
struggle and fight for it. Nothing came easily to 
her, nor could she apparently even hold the things 
she had succeeded in grasping. She thought with 
bitterness of those miserable flirtations with Rodney 
and Benny. She had truly, so she believed, cared 
for Rodney, but that affair with Benny had been 
utterly idle and futile, an attempt to win a young 
man merely because he was well off and seemed to 
like her. Secretly she had been perfectly ready to 
marry him, and she had been furious with Anna 
for revealing the fact of her engagement to the 
countess. These episodes, seen in retrospect, were 
ugly and in sense degrading. Gay felt that the 
countess had summed her up pretty accurately, and 
her energetic action in removing her darling son from 
the field of danger had shown her precisely what 
that summing up was. Nothing, perhaps in all her 
life, had struck so sharply at her pride as Benny’s 
swift defection had done. She had felt herself 
smudged. She had wanted to show Rodney that she 
was indifferent to him now; she had tried to marry 
another man, and her little house of cards had fallen 
into irreparable ruin. And she had felt it would be 
easy to please Benny; he would have been satisfied 
with so little. He would have adored her, because 
she was so strangely unlike the women of his own 
race; she was an unknown quantity to him. No, 
she had not forgiven Anna for her gratuitous inter¬ 
ference. 

Another boat was approaching her, with a solitary 
figure dressed in white flannels sitting in it. As it 
drew nearer she saw that the man was Benny Selvi. 
His dark hair, which he wore rather long on the 
top of his head as do so many Italians, flowed back 


THE COMING OF MICHAEL 


H7 


from his face with a motion almost as of wings as 
the breeze caught it. His face was healthily sun¬ 
burnt, and his dark eyes were very bright. 

“He doesn’t see me,” she thought She paused, 
lifted one hand, and waved to him. Benny bent his 
head forward bowing stiffly, and a queer stony ex¬ 
pression seemed to transform his face into a mask. 
So he had seen her, and he had intended perhaps 
to pass her by. She felt his action like a blow in the 
face. 

So they were back already, the Selvis. Michael 
would probably hear an exaggerated account of the 
little episode from Countess Selvi. Perhaps she 
would even urge him to use his influence and persuade 
Anna to send her—Gay—away from the Villa 
Caterina. 

Crimson with anger and outraged pride, Gay took 
up her oars and rowed on toward San Gervasio. 
That cold formal little bow, such as he might have 
bestowed upon the merest stranger, showed her that 
Benny had completely acquiesced in his mother’s 
decision; perhaps he had even been a party to it, 
glad of the means of escape thus proffered. For 
when a man cared truly for a woman, he did not 
allow such things as parental influence or threats of 
disinheritance to deter him from marriage. No, 
the fact was that no one had ever really cared for 
her. They had fallen in love, perhaps, a little at 
first, charmed by her bright gipsy looks, and after¬ 
wards they had drawn away, a little afraid of that 
very strangeness in her that had at first attracted 
them. For the second time that morning Gay wept, 
but this time they were tears of mortification and 
indignation, and were perhaps the bitterest she had 
ever shed. 

“I shall go away. I can’t stay at Sant’ Elena now 
the Selvis have come back,” she thought. 


ANNA NUGENT 


But she had nowhere to go until she could find 
a suitable post. Her old friend Mrs. Phipps-Moxon 
had gone back to England for the summer and more¬ 
over had invited a younger girl to accompany her. 
She had been rather cool to Gay of late, as if she, 
too, had been disappointed. 

Gay rowed up to the little stone pier at San Ger- 
vasio. Leaving the boat there she landed and 
climbed up to the village with its quaint arcaded 
streets, in the shadow of which women and girls of 
all ages sat making the lace for which the place was 
famous. They were diligent and absorbed in their 
work. Gay stopped sometimes for a moment to 
watch them. They looked at her with eyes as dark 
as her own and invited her to buy some of their 
handiwork. But Gay shook her head and walked up 
the steep path to the heights above the town. 


CHAPTER VIII 


COUNTESS SELVI 
I 

G AY’S absence that day communicated a vague 
uneasiness to both Michael and Anna. She 
must have suspected something, they thought, or she 
would hardly have gone off so early for the whole 
day, leaving only that abrupt little note. 

“But you’re not in a hurry to go back, are you, 
Michael?” said Anna. “I mean—you can stay a 
little, now you are here?” 

“Oh, I can stay all right. I’ve been owed a holi¬ 
day for ages. But the question is whether it’ll be 
possible for me to stay, once I’ve told her.” 

“Then don’t speak just yet,” pleaded Anna. 

She seemed to want a reprieve for herself as well 
as for Gay. 

“But if I put it off I shall turn coward, too,” said 
Michael. 

They were sitting in the loggia, for it was too hot 
then to be out of doors, and were waiting for tea, 
when Countess Selvi was announced. 

Anna sprang up. She had no idea the countess 
had returned to Sant’ Elena, and the surprise was 
not altogether a pleasant one. She, too, was afraid 
that Countess Selvi might say something detrimental 
about Gay in Michael’s hearing, alienating his sym¬ 
pathy. 

“I’d no idea you were back. I thought you meant 
to spend the whole summer at Menaggio.” 

149 


ANNA NUGENT 


150 

“No—it doesn’t suit me for one^ thing. I am 
never happy away from Sant’ Elena.” 

“This is my cousin, Mr. Nugent,” said Anna, 
presenting Michael to the countess. ‘ He has come 
to stay here for a little.” 

The countess shook hands with Michael and then 
sat down and began to fan herself. “Benny is com¬ 
ing to pick me up later,” she said. Then turning 
to Michael: “I hope you like Sant’ Elena, Mr. 
Nugent? We always think Anna’s villa is quite one 
of the most charming. And she has made it look so 
pretty, too.” . . 

“I only came this morning,” said Michael, but 
so far everything seems to me quite perfect. This 
is my first glimpse of Italy, which makes it all the 
more wonderful.” 

“Oh, I daresay you’ll run over quite often, now 
that Anna’s settled here,” said the countess. She 
thought it was no bad thing that her English relations 
should keep an eye on the girl. 

“Well, I’m a very busy man,” said Michael, smil¬ 
ing. “I don’t often get a holiday.” 

“Benny saw Miss Lawton rowing toward San Ger- 
vasio this morning,” said Countess Selvi, after a 
brief pause. “She was by herself, he said. I wonder 
you’re not afraid of her going off like that alone.” 

“Oh, Gay’s all right, and she’s a good swimmer,” 
said Anna, a little taken aback. 

The countess turned to Michael and said: 

“Dear Anna is so indulgent about Miss Lawton, 
whom we none of us care for very much.” 

Michael was slightly astonished. He wondered 
why it was that Gay contrived to arouse such hostility 
even in the breasts of mild elderly ladies such as 
Countess Selvi. 

“Well, we shouldn’t like to think of Anna’s living 
here quite alone,” he said easily. 


COUNTESS SELV1 


151 

“Oh, no, of course that wouldn’t do at all. In 
Italy we are still old-fashioned in our views about 
girls. But I’m not the only one to think Anna hasn’t 
chosen her companion quite wisely.” 

“But Anna’s known her a long time. They’re old 
friends,” said Michael. 

“Benny agrees with me. He liked Miss Lawton 
at first, but now he is quite disillusioned; he can 
hardly bear to hear her name,” said the countess, 
severely. 

Michael gave no sign of curiosity, but he wondered 
nevertheless, exactly what Gay Lawton had done to 
render herself so thoroughly unacceptable to these 
friends of Anna’s. 

Anna poured out tea, thankful for the diversion 
thus created. She was sorry the subject had been 
mentioned, and probably when her visitor had de¬ 
parted, Michael would wish to learn more than he 
could possibly have done from these hints. She 
would have to answer his questions, and perhaps he 
would feel less sorry for Gay, less inclined to pity 
her or to blame Rodney for having so wantonly 
thrown her over. 

Presently a young man came into the loggia and 
greeted Anna with eager friendliness. Typically 
Italian as he was, it astonished Michael to hear him 
address her in such perfect English. 

“Anna—it’s seemed such ages! We both hated 
Menaggio!” 

Selvi smiled, showing very even white teeth. 

Anna felt strongly convinced that he had only 
come this afternoon because he had seen Gay rowing 
over to San Gervasio, and trusted to her being away 
the whole day. She said quietly: 

“Benny, this is my cousin, Mr. Nugent—Count 
Selvi.” 

The two men shook hands. Though there was 


ANNA NUGENT 


152 

only a year or two of difference in their respective 
ages, Michael looked far the older of the two. 
Benny indeed seemed almost like a boy beside him. 

“You must bring Mr. Nugent over to lunch one 
day next week,” he told Anna. 

“I’m not sure that I shall be here then, said 
Michael, pleasantly. 

“Oh, you’ve come over for the week-end? That 
is very English!” said Selvi, with an ironical laugh. 

“Well, not quite that. But I’m a busy man, as 
I’ve just been telling your mother.” 

He couldn’t help liking Selvi with his gay anima¬ 
tion, his almost incredible good looks, the easy grace 
of his manner. Anna looked almost ethereal by his 
side, with her delicate pallor, the fairness of her 
hair. Of course her beauty was bound to attract 
him, and it was quite obvious that the countess was 
extremely fond of her, and would offer no opposition 
to the marriage. 

It was indeed the most probable solution of Anna’s 
future, binding her to Sant’ Elena and to Italy for 
the rest of her life. And surely for her that would 
be the happiest thing. 

Michael realized then, with a little stab of dismay, 
that Selvi was the rival to whom he had somewhat 
magnanimously and quixotically yielded the first 
chance of winning Anna’s love. As this thought 
occurred to him, he was conscious of a strange jeal¬ 
ousy. He remembered his mother’s words, and felt 
that she must have had some secret knowledge of 
the state of affairs to prompt her to utter them. 
Yes, this man would perhaps step in, joyously, con- 
queringly, where he himself had feared to tread. 
A thousand scruples had forced silence upon him, 
but Selvi would never be troubled by one of them. 
Anna ... a girl he had known practically all his 
life, an especial favorite of his mother’s, not rich but 


COUNTESS SELVI 


*53 


by no means dowerless—what more natural than that 
he should fall in love with her and wish to marry 
her? It was indeed one of those marriages which 
from their inherent suitability were almost bound to 
take place. Nor could Michael be unmindful of the 
kind and motherly attitude of the countess towards 
Anna, even though it took the rather unfortunate 
form of this stern disapproval of Gay. It was al¬ 
most, he thought, as if some secret understanding 
already existed between them. 

Besides, in this case Anna would be welcome, 
whereas for him there would be countless difficulties. 
There had never been any special degree of sympathy 
between his mother and Anna. If Mrs. Nugent had 
really cared for the girl, she would hardly have 
permitted her to leave them with such promptitude, 
almost as if she had wished to get rid of her. After 
the first, she had never really tried to prevent her 
from returning to the Villa Caterina, and in the end 
she had hastened her departure, actuated by some 
urgent occult motive that Michael had never been 
able to fathom. . . . 

He had determined, too, that he would not ask 
Anna to be his wife until he had become a Catholic, 
and, despite his efforts, he had not been able to 
devote all the time and attention to this religious 
problem that he held to be necessary. When he was 
a Catholic himself, his parents could hardly disap¬ 
prove of his marrying one; they would understand 
that this step was the logical and inevitable outcome 
of the other. His own conversion would in one 
sense make his path a little easier. 

Easier? He hadn’t reckoned with Anna, and her 
absorption in these ancient influences that had now 
surrounded her with fresh vigor. He felt a renewal 
of pain when Countess Selvi said: 

“It was sweet of your mother to let Anna come 


ANNA NUGENT 


154 

back. I was so afraid she might prevent it. I missed 
my little daughter.” 

Michael replied a little stiffly: “Anna was quite 
free the moment she was eighteen. We could hardly 
hope to keep her.” 

Anna had left the loggia with Selvi and had gone 
into the garden at his request. She had not quite 
liked to leave Michael and the countess together, 
fearing that the latter might say prejudicial things 
against Gay. Still there seemed to be no help for 
it, and she accompanied him without demur, only 
saying to Michael as she passed: 

“Won’t you come out, too, and bring Countess 
Selvi?” 

They rose presently and followed them into the 
garden, going down the shaded paths under the ilex 
trees, and then on to the terrace that overlooked 
the blue and silver of the Bay. 

Michael said in a formal tone: “We were so glad 
to think Anna had found old friends here. I was 
afraid she might be lonely at first.” 

“Lonely? But she has that friend she’s so devoted 
to. I am selfish enough to wish Miss Lawton wasn’t 
here.” 

“Anna is very fond of her.” 

“Yes, but I don’t fancy she finds her a very easy 
person to live with. I’m going to be frank with 
you, Mr. Nugent. I don’t like Miss Lawton. And 
I think Anna would be far happier with an older, 
more tranquil companion.” 

“Miss Lawton has had an unhappy life,” said 
Michael. He felt constrained to say something in 
Gay’s defense, but even in these few hours at the 
Villa Caterina he had perceived that the arrangement 
was not working too smoothly. It was true, perhaps, 
that Gay had inflicted something of her own unhappi¬ 
ness upon Anna. She had in some sense dimmed the 


COUNTESS SELVI 


155 


brightness and serenity of her new life for her. But 
it could all be traced back to his own brother’s treat¬ 
ment of her, and he felt that it would be therefore 
indecent to fasten the whole blame upon Gay. 

“One must try to make up to her for all that she 
has suffered,” continued Michael. “I’m sure Anna 
feels that too.” He knew that there was further 
suffering ahead for Gay as soon as he could bring 
himself to reveal the brutal truth to her. 

How was he to tell her? How could he protect 
Anna from Gay’s bitterness? Every moment his task 
seemed to become harder, more impossible. If May 
had known how complex it all was she would surely 
never have urged this journey upon him. 

“Of course,” continued the countess, “when Anna 
marries, Miss Lawton will have to leave.” 

“Oh, Anna is so young; I hope she won’t think of 
marrying just yet,” he said. 

“She is nineteen,” said the countess. “In Italy 
that is not considered at all too young. And Anna 
is alone, she needs a husband.” She fixed her eyes 
upon the two figures standing at the other end of the 
terrace. 

It was a beautiful evening, very still and windless, 
and the white sails of the fishing boats were accu¬ 
rately reflected in the water. 

Michael was silent. The countess’s words had 
perturbed him. He had the feeling that she had 
lifted a curtain and shown him an intimate and rather 
disturbing picture of Anna’s new life, which on the 
surface had appeared so calm and tranquil. This 
unflattering picture of Gay made him wonder if Anna, 
despite her love for her, was really happy with her. 
Gay’s was a significant personality, brilliant, but 
tempestuous. Perhaps she was restive in this beauti¬ 
ful but lonely spot. Perhaps she demanded some¬ 
thing more stimulating of life, and felt that her youth 


156 


ANNA NUGENT 


was being wasted here at Villa Caterina. And if 
Anna was aware of it, she too must suffer at the 
thought of Gay’s discontent. 

2 

Although the countess had not once alluded to 
that frustrated flirtation between her son and Miss 
Lawton, Michael was left with the conviction that 
she had some definite though unrevealed cause for 
her dislike of Gay. She seemed anxious, too, that 
the Nugents should use their influence to prevail upon 
Anna to have another companion in Miss Lawton’s 
place. But this, Michael felt, would at the present 
moment be not only unjustifiable but impossible. Gay 
needed all possible kindness and consideration at this 
critical time. One could not really blame her for 
anything she might do or be. All the blame must 
be kept for Rodney, who had suffered least in the 
little drama and indeed seemed to have escaped scot- 
free. 

When the countess and her son had taken their 
departure Michael turned to Anna and said: 

“Do you think Gay is happy here?” 

“No. But then she wouldn’t be happy anywhere 
just now. You mustn’t attach too much importance 
to anything Countess Selvi may have said of her, 
you know. She doesn’t like her, and they’ve never 
really got on. It’s horrid when one’s great friends 
don’t hit it off,” she added hurriedly. 

“You mustn’t let Miss Lawton spoil things,” he 
said. 

“I love her far more than I love Countess Selvi,” 
said Anna, with unexpected warmth. She wanted 
him to know that if she had to choose between the 
two protagonists, she would inevitably choose Gay. 

Michael felt an immense relief at the words. It 


COUNTESS SELF I 


157 

really looked as if young Selvi might not have things 
all his own way, after all. Still, if Anna should fall 
in love with him—and Michael refused to minimize, 
even to himself, Benedetto’s undoubted attractions 
—all this devotion to Gay would take a secondary 
place. Benedetto had everything in his favor—youth, 
good looks, an adequate income, combined with an 
immensely desirable propinquity — and personally 
Michael didn’t think that Gay’s influence would be 
strong enough to keep the two young people apart, 
even if she wished to, which he still had to ascer¬ 
tain. . . . 

“I suppose she’s really more to you than any¬ 
body?” hazarded Michael. 

To his astonishment she turned her head abruptly 
away. “No,” she said in a low, strangled tone, so 
that he could hardly catch the monosyllable. She 
couldn’t meet his eyes then, his bright, questioning, 
scrutinizing eyes. He was so near, and yet so in¬ 
credibly far away. . . . 

“She means Selvi,” thought Michael, jealously. 

They stood for some minutes in silence, gazing 
seaward. When they turned as if aware of some 
disturbing sound they saw Gay emerging from the 
trees beyond the terrace. She had just come up the 
steps from the landing-stage. 

Anna went quickly towards her. “Oh, so you’ve 
come back, Gay! We’ve had the most unexpected 
visitors here to tea—Countess Selvi and Benny. But 
of course you knew they were back. Benny said he 
passed you in the boat this morning.” 

Gay smiled. “I’m so glad Mr. Nugent has lost 
no time in meeting these dear friends of yours, 
Anna.” Her tone was light, sarcastic, wounding. 

“Oh, well, they’re such old friends. And I was 
so surprised to see them. I’d no idea they were 
back.” 


158 


ANNA NUGENT 


Michael came up to the two girls. 

“You have quite deserted us/’ he said kindly to 
Gay. 

“I felt you and Anna would have a lot to say to 
each other!” 

Gay stood there, her arms folded, gazing sea¬ 
wards across the Bay. The immobility of her atti¬ 
tude was very striking, and gave Michael almost the 
impression of a statue. 

Something of constraint fell upon the little group. 
They had both spoken and thought so much of Gay 
that it seemed to them as if she must subconsciously 
be aware of it. Anna felt that Gay’s presence, 
reminding them of the unpleasant task that still had 
to be performed, was disturbing, even unwelcome. 
She had been so happy with Michael. . . . 

The dusk deepened. Rainbow hues of rose-pink, 
topaz, and turquoise jeweled the surface of the water. 
The pansy tones of the mountains deepened in color; 
the sky behind them was of the clearest amber. A 
kind of atmospheric magic informed both sea and 
sky. The boughs of the pine-trees looked almost 
black against the prevailing pale clear tones. 

As they went toward the house, Gay walking a 
little ahead of them, Anna whispered to Michael: 

“Don’t tell her yet. . . 

She knew that Gay was in a hard, bitter, unap¬ 
proachable mood, alienating sympathy just when she 
had most need of it. Even in these few hours she 
was changed. She made it impossible for Michael 
to approach her, just as if she were silently defying 
him to speak to her of Rodney. . . . 

Michael only said: “My dear child, it’s got to 
be done, and the sooner the better.” His voice was 
hard and decisive. 

“Poor Gay,” said Anna. She dreaded the moment 


COUNTESS SELF I 


159 


when the storm should burst. Something of its vio¬ 
lence would inevitably fall upon herself. When 
Michael saw her pallor, of disquietude, he said to 
himself: “I won’t have Anna worried. I shall get 
it over to-night.” 

3 

There was a bright moon that night, and the Bay 
looked like a sheet of transparent silver. In the 
garden there was a heavy fragrance of late-flowering 
honeysuckle, jessamine, and a summer mimosa. 
There were few fireflies now, but great horned beetles 
droned past, and large pale moths showed white 
against the darkness of shrub and tree. 

The murmur of the sea made a sustained rhythmic 
sound, faint and yet crisp. 

“Do come out with me, Miss Lawton. I want 
to have a talk,” said Michael, after dinner. 

They had been drinking their coffee in the loggia 
when he suddenly rose and addressed Gay. She 
looked up sharply, and, for the moment, Anna 
thought she was going to refuse point-blank. 

Gay was astonished. She had purposely left Anna 
and Michael alcne all day, thinking they would have 
much that was private to discuss, and she had felt 
half jealous because she could not be blind to Anna’s 
happiness at seeing her cousin again. Michael’s 
friendship might be a wonderful thing, she told her¬ 
self; she envied Anna the possession of it. 

And all day she had been writhing under the snub 
she had received that morning from Count Selvi. 
It had shown her so plainly that not only was every¬ 
thing at an end between them, but that he fully 
accepted and shared his mother’s disapproval. 

What could Michael have to say to her? Could 
it possibly concern Rodney? After a moment’s hesi- 


i6o ANNA NUGENT 

tation she rose submissively and went into the garden 

with him. , , , . 

It was beautiful to-night, and the moon seemed to 
imbue everything with a kind of fragile, unreal 
q Ua lity—the ebony shadows, the shining silver spaces, 
the white flowers gleaming in the dusk, the tall 
tuberoses with their heavy perfume, the wide Bay 
stretching like a silken silver cloth to the feet or the 
mountains. ... 

“What can he want?” she thought, not without a 

little cold misgiving. . . 

They stood for a few minutes in silence, leaning 
over the stone balustrade that separated the terrace 
from the sea. The waves were lapping against the 
steps beneath them with a soft sucking sound. 

“Isn’t this quite perfect?” said Michael. 

“Yes. But you didn’t come out here to tell me 
that,” said Gay, in her queer attractive husky voice. 

“No—that’s quite true. I came to speak to you 
about Rodney.” 

“About Rodney!” 

“I simply hate having to tell you,” he said. But 
someone’s got to do it. Rodney . . .” he paused, 
feeling utterly miserable and helpless. 

Gay looked at him with her dark, piercing eyes. 

“Is he going to be married?” she asked, in a cool, 
steady voice. 

“Yes.” 

“Who on earth to?” 

“Lady Stella Belton—May’s sister-in-law.” 

“Stella Belton! That child. ...” 

“Yes. She’s just nineteen. May—May helped it 
on, you know. She’s very fond of them both.” 

“May’s always pursued me like a malignant fury,” 
said Gay. 

“Oh, you mustn’t think that. But she’s an am¬ 
bitious woman, and she’s devoted to Rodney. I 


COUNTESS SELVI 


161 


sometimes think he still counts for more than anyone 
in her life.” 

Gay stood there, very still, very silent. Her brown 
hands were clasped tightly together and rested on the 
stone ledge of the balustrade. She wasn’t going to 
show Michael that she cared. She was so self-con- 
trolled that he could hardly believe she fully realized 
the whole brutal significance of the truth. He felt 
sorry for her. She had pluck and grit. There was 
strength as well as weakness in that strange, complex 
character. 

Suddenly she said: 

“Thank you. I’m glad you had the courage to 
tell me. I think I would rather have heard it from 
you than from anyone else. And it must have been 
unspeakably odious. . . .” She smiled at him. 

Michael could hardly have remained unaffected by 
the subtle flattery of her words and look. 

“Thank you, too,” he said quietly, “for making it 
easier for me than I’d dared to hope.” 

“Easier?” The sudden laugh she gave was mirth¬ 
less and ironical. Couldn’t he see that her little world 
had toppled into ruins? “But I knew long ago, you 
see. Rodney’s letters told me that he didn’t care 
any more. I could read between the lines. But then 
I thought it would be all right if I could only see him 
again. . . . What’s this girl like?” 

“Pretty enough, and very charming. She’s got 
reddish hair.” 

As Michael stood there it seemed to Gay that his 
likeness to his brother was very marked. When one 
saw them together they hardly seemed to resemble 
each other at all, but apart the strong family-likeness 
was curiously striking. Gay saw it now, and she felt 
that Michael, instead of seeming the stranger that he 
was, was an old and intimate friend. Something of 
the glamour of Rodney’s personality had fallen upon 


ANNA NUGENT 


162 

him. She thought jealously: “He’s a much better 
man than Rodney. One could trust him with one s 
life. He’ll make Anna ever so happy.” 

“Will it be soon?” she asked, after a long pause. 

“I think—next month.” 

“That is wise of Stella Belton,” she said bitterly. ^ 

“I wish I could make some excuse for him,said 
Michael, almost with a touch of passion. “But 
though he’s my brother and I’m very fond of him, I 
can’t find any extenuating circumstances, except per¬ 
haps that he was very young at the time—a mere boy. 
But apart from that, he ought to have told you long 
ago that he’d changed. That’s where I can t forgive 
him. Letting the thing drag on for such years, know¬ 
ing all the time it could only have one ending. . . . 
And if he hadn’t meant to stick to you, what was the 
use of quarreling with his parents about it?” 

“I suppose he thought that he meant to stick to 
me,” said Gay. 

“Miss Lawton—I wish I could make amends. I 
wish I could help you. ...” 

“You can’t help me.” She gave him a look that 
was both sad and proud and held in it, too, something 
of appeal. “I suppose I shall just stay on here with 
Anna until she marries Benny Selvi. . . .” She 
looked straight into Michael’s dismayed eyes as she 
spoke. 

In her own anguish she had struck the blow blindly 
although deliberately. Oh, these Nugents! . . . 
She was writhing beneath the stress of a pain she was 
too proud to reveal, and the desire to retaliate, to 
give back blow for blow, was too strong to be re¬ 
sisted. 

But it had taken effect. Michael’s face in the 
moonlight was of an almost corpse-like pallor. Little 
beads of perspiration stood on his brow. 

“Marries Selvi?” he repeated. 


COUNTESS SELF I 


163 

Although the possibility had been continually in 
his mind during the few hours of his stay at the 
Villa Caterina, to hear it put thus into words, as some¬ 
thing that was quite definitely going to happen, gave 
him a quick, sharp stab of pain. He had seen them 
together that afternoon. He had noticed the friendly, 
almost intimate terms that existed between Anna and 
the mother and son. And he had realized, too, that if 
he had a rival, that rival was Benny. 

“Well, wouldn’t that be the logical outcome of her 
coming back to live here?” inquired Gay. “Countess 
Selvi adores Anna, and these Italians, as you know, 
arrange marriages for their children.” 

“Is she—in love with Selvi?” he found himself say¬ 
ing. 

“Anna ? No—I shouldn’t think so. She’d tell you 
she wasn’t anyhow. And I’ve certainly never asked 
her. But she likes going there and being fussed over 
by the countess, with her ‘darling little daughter’ busi¬ 
ness.” She looked at Michael with a touch of de¬ 
fiant hostility in her eyes, as much as to say: “Don’t 
you imagine that you Nugents are going to have it 
all your own way!” 

“She’d be welcome there,” thought Michael, 
miserably. 

Gay must have had opportunities denied to himself 
of watching the trend of events at Sant’ Elena. Per¬ 
haps she knew for certain that the young man cared 
about Anna, and that his mother wished for the mar¬ 
riage. 

“He isn’t good enough for her,” she admitted 
grudgingly. “But she’ll never see that. Women 
don’t.” 

Perhaps her tacit opposition had caused that 
rather incomprehensible dislike on the part of 
Countess Selvi, whose one wish seemed to be that 
Gay should leave her present post. 


ANNA NUGENT 


164 

Michael had felt a certain relief at first when Gay 
had turned from the subject of Rodney to discuss 
other matters, but this conversation had now become 
even more painful to him. 

“He’s a good Catholic, of course?” he said. 

“Oh, yes, and his mother is very pious. Anna’s 
just the kind of good quiet girl she wants for her 
son.” 

There was a far-off touch of contempt in her voice 
that enraged Michael. Had he forced himself to 
wait for more than a year before speaking to Anna, 
only to see her precipitated into a marriage with 
Selvi? He remembered her ambiguous “No” this 
evening, when he had asked her if Gay was really 
more to her than anyone in the world. That excep¬ 
tion must have been Selvi, and he felt that he had 
wrung the confession reluctantly from her. 

Suddenly Gay turned to him. 

“You can tell Rodney I don’t care!” she said, in a 
tone of suppressed passion. “I’m not going to break 
my heart over anyone so utterly worthless and 
false! I wish Stella joy of him. I don’t care!” 

Her voice broke on a strangled sob. Her whole 
form was tense with passion. Her eyes blazed, and 
her strong brown hands were clenched tightly. It 
was as if a statue had suddenly come to life with full 
consciousness of life’s pain. The transformation 
was almost terrible to Michael. Pie had the feeling 
that he was looking at the naked soul of .Gay Lawton, 
stripped of all conventionality, reticence and subter¬ 
fuge. She seemed to have suddenly realized all that 
Rodney’s defection would entail. And she was rebel¬ 
ling with all the hot mutiny of youth against the pros¬ 
pect of a life emptied of his presence. 

“I won’t stay here! I w r on’t stay with Anna, to be 
continually reminded of you all. You’ve all done 
your best to put a stop to it, haven’t you? I don’t 


COUNTESS SELVI 


165 


suppose May was more to blame than anyone else. 
I want to go away and forget the name of Nugent!” 
She flung the words at him in breathless fashion, and 
her strong slender spare form shook like a reed. 

“I’m most frightfully sorry, Miss Lawton,” said 
Michael. “You can’t say or think harder things of 
him, of us, than I’ve been saying and thinking. I’m 
awfully soriy, and I wish I could help you.” 

He put his hand for a second on her hot trembling 
one. Something of tenderness informed his voice, 
for it was horrible to his sensitive mind to see her 
suffering thus, as if under some appalling physical 
agony that denuded the body of all its pride; the 
speech, of all its natural reticence. And just for the 
moment he felt the subtle attraction of Gay, the queer 
individual charm that once had woven spells for 
Rodney. He saw that she was beautiful and strange, 
that she had personality and temperament and a kind 
of fiery, impetuous quality that prevented her from 
ever seeming insignificant. If only all had gone well, 
he felt that she would have been the right wife for 
his brother. And until now Michael had always been 
strongly in sympathy with those who had opposed the 
marriage. 

“You mustn’t let this drive you away from here,” 
he said. “I know my cousin wants you. She is very 
fond of you.” 

Gay was sobbing silently. His unexpected kindli¬ 
ness was more than she could bear. He seemed to 
be speaking to her in Rodney’s voice, and yet in 
tones that one could trust absolutely. Her hand grew 
still under the firm touch of his. 

“Yes—she’s fond enough of me now. But when 
she marries—” Gay paused and gave a hard little 
laugh. “The Selvis hate me. They feel, I suppose, 
that I don’t consider Benny good enough for Anna!” 

Michael withdrew his hand quietly. 


166 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Don’t try to influence her one way or the other,” 
he said. “I hope myself that she won’t marry just 
yet. She’s very young, you know—in some ways 
she’s almost a child.” 

Gay stared at him in astonishment. 

“Oh, if you want her to marry Selvi!” she said 
impetuously. 

“I’ve never said so. As a matter of fact I should 
simply hate it. Anna’s very English at heart, you 
know. This Selvi seems a charming boy, but he’s 
not quite the man I should choose for her.” 

There was really nothing he could adduce to sup¬ 
port his intense dislike to the scheme except that he 
desperately wanted to marry Anna himself. And it 
would be premature to communicate this fact to Gay 
Lawton. 

“Let’s go in,” said Gay. “We’ve been out here 
such ages. And you must be tired after your 
journey. Anna’ll wonder ... but perhaps she 
knows?” 

“Yes, she knows. I did ask her to prepare you a 
little, but she didn’t feel able to. Do try to believe 
that it’s hurt us both. You’ve been so much to 
Anna.” 

He followed her down the path gleaming in the 
moonlight like a pearly track between the twin 
avenues of darkness. The tuberoses and white 
phloxes stood up like pale scented ghosts breathing 
their fragrant incense to the night. There was a 
freshness as of falling dew that mitigated the warmth 
of the air. They could see, as they approached, 
Anna’s dim silhouette in the loggia, her head turned 
seaward. 

Gay walked on briskly ahead of him. The violence 
of her grief had spent itself. She was able to greet 
Anna calmly when they entered the loggia. 

Throwing an arm about her she whispered: 


COUNTESS SELF I 


167 


“He’s told me everything. He’s been most fright¬ 
fully kind. And I don’t want ever to speak of it 
again!” 

She went up to her room without another word. 

“How did she take it?” Anna asked gravely. 

She had spent that hour in suspense, wondering 
what they were saying to each other, out there on 
the moonlit terrace. Always, always, she had been 
afraid of what Gay might say to Michael when she 
knew the truth. He was sensitive, behind that cold 
caustic exterior; he was easily wounded. And she 
knew Gay’s power to wound. 

“Better than I expected. You were right in 
thinking she wasn’t unprepared. In some ways she 
puzzled me.” 

“Puzzled you?” 

“I like her, you know. I used not to. I was 
against the marriage, and thought Rodney was doing 
a fool thing getting engaged to a girl he knew so little 
of. But to-night I could understand why he was for 
a time—quite a long time—so desperately in love 
with her.” Anna listened in dismayed silence. She 
was aware that Gay had a curious, almost sinister, 
power of attracting men. She had seen its swift effect 
upon Rodney, and more recently upon Benny Selvi. 
When they freed themselves from her spell, they 
were apt to turn away with a kind of repulsion 
proportionate to the initial enchantment. But 
Michael. . . . 

A lamp hung in the loggia and under its searching 
rays he could see that Anna was looking pale and 
slightly exhausted. 

“I am glad it was not too much of a shock,” she 
said quietly. 

“Yes. But she’s suffering all the same. I used to 
hope that her feeling for Rodney was a passing emo- 


168 


ANNA NUGENT 


tion—they knew so little of each other. But I see 
that it wasn’t. ...” . . , 

Michael paced up and down the loggia with a kind 
of energetic restlessness. All the time he was speak¬ 
ing he was scarcely thinking of Gay and her affairs, 
but of what she had said to-night concerning Anna 
and Selvi. She must have had something to go upon, 
some sure evidence, to speak of the marriage as if it 
were almost a certainty. He longed to question 
Anna, but felt the impossibility of this unless he were 
prepared to disclose his own feeling for her. 

Her quiet beauty had this evening a quality that 
was dazzling and almost unearthly. The gold of her 
hair, the shining jewel-like gray eyes that looked like 
stars under the dark level finely-traced brows, the 
pallor of her skin that still retained the flawless 
quality of extreme youth—all combined to invest her 
with a charm that was beyond, as it was always 
above, Gay’s. It was like emerging from some 
powerful, violent storm and entering upon a quiet, 
tranquil, sun-filled landscape, to come upon her thus 
after his tempestuous little interview with Gay. 

“Did she say anything to you just now?” he asked. 

“Only that you’d told her—that you’d been fright¬ 
fully kind—and that she didn’t wish to speak of it 
again.” 

“This has been an awful worry for you, Anna. 
I’m so sorry.” 

“Oh, don’t think of me. If Gay could only be 
happy. . . .” She gave him her hand. “Good¬ 
night, Michael. ...” 

The touch of her slim cool fingers thrilled him. 
He watched her as she moved away. 

Although he was very tired he felt disinclined to 
go to bed. He returned to the terrace, and then 
went down the steps to the little wooden landing- 


COUNTESS SELVI 169 

stage. For a few seconds he stood there, and then 
the lure of the sea proved too strong for him. He 
stripped off his clothes, and plunged into the water. 
He had never bathed by moonlight before, and it 
seemed to him that he was swimming in a wonderful 
smooth sea of crystal and silver. The warm flow of 
the water against his body—the pale and luminous 
shining of the spray that shook from his arms and 
hands as they performed their swift and practiced 
movements—gave him a sensation of physical delight 
that was unlike anything he had hitherto known. 
Sometimes he could remember, as a boy, dreaming 
of such an experience—this floating in a smooth 
warm sea, so buoyant that it almost supported him 
without effort on his part. And it had been always, 
too, a transparent moonlit sea such as this that now 
enfolded him with its soft and liquid caress. It was 
all part of this wonderful Italy—this dream-world 
into which he had suddenly penetrated, and which 
seemed to belong so utterly to Anna. 

He lay on his back, floating idly, his eyes gazing 
up at that wonderful sky, pale with moonlight, pow¬ 
dered with the gold-dust or millions of stars. . . . 


CHAPTER IX 

BLUE DAYS AT SEA 


I 

G AY appeared on the terrace the following morn¬ 
ing just as Anna returned from Mass at the 
Cathedral. She looked heavy-eyed, as if she had not 
slept. . . n 

“I hope you’re not going off for the day again, 
said Anna, timidly. 

u No. I shall stay here. But you needn’t be afraid 
—I shan’t interfere with you and your cousin.” 

“Oh, but I like to have you, and so does Michael. 
You’ve quite won over Michael, you know, Gay.” 

Gay gave her a quick, sharp glance. “Little inno¬ 
cent!” she said. 

Nevertheless Anna felt that she was pleased. It 
would certainly be more pleasant for everyone if Gay 
and Michael could tolerate each other during his 
short stay. Gay might so easily have made it im¬ 
possible for Michael to remain. 

But she flushed a little beneath the scrutiny. She 
felt almost as if Gay had discerned something of her 
secret. She moved away to the table and began to 
pour out the coffee from the heavy, old-fashioned 
Georgian-silver pot. 

There was a faint haze over the mountains blur¬ 
ring their outlines. The sun had not yet emerged 
from that bank of early mist. 

“Come and have some coffee, Gay,” said Anna. 
They saw Michael strolling lazily toward them, 
170 


BLUE DAYS AT SEA 


171 


coming from the direction of the house. He 
greeted the two girls, and then turning to Anna said: 

“I had such a heavenly swim by moonlight last 
night.” 

“Wasn’t it very cold?” asked Gay, helping herself 
to a crisp-looking roll. 

“No, it was exactly right. I don’t know when I’ve 
enjoyed anything so much.” 

As they sat there at breakfast, a servant ap¬ 
proached bringing a note for Anna. She opened it, 
glanced at it rapidly, and gave a verbal reply in 
Italian. 

“Countess Selvi has written to say she isn’t well, 
and she wants me to go round and see her this morn¬ 
ing. I’m so sorry, Michael. Perhaps you and Gay 
would like to go out for a row.” 

Michael swallowed his disappointment. “If Miss 
Lawton doesn’t mind,” he said. “But I can really 
amuse myself quite well.” 

“Those eternal Selvis!” said Gay, with a touch of 
scorn. She smiled at Michael as if she had some 
private understanding with him on the subject. Anna 
intercepted both look and smile and felt a little indig¬ 
nant. She had been so careful to give no hint to 
Michael as to the reason of that mutual dislike and 
distrust which existed between the Selvis and Gay. 

All of a sudden she felt afraid of Gay, of her 
swift, spontaneous, almost unconscious power. Yet, 
was it so unconscious? One could hardly possess 
such a strong and vital quality and remain unaware 
of it. 

“Gay can row for miles. She’ll show you the 
coast,” said Anna. She wanted to make up to Gay 
for that little secret disloyal thought of her. And 
she felt that if Gay were with Michael all through 
that beautiful summer morning, she would be able 
to forget something of her own unhappiness. He 


ANNA NUGENT 


172 

had given her his ready, wise sympathy; he seemed 
eager to help her over this bad bit of the road. But 
when Anna remembered the episode with Benny and 
how it had seemed to her, an onlooker, that Gay had 
been bent on capturing and marrying him, her heart 
misgave her. What if Gay should deliberately use 
this power of hers to win Michael? He was the least 
suspecting of men, and he was very ignorant of 

women. . 

“We might take our lunch, unless you want us back 
soon,” said Gay, in an indolent tone. 

Anna was momentarily aghast at this sudden 
enlargement of the programme; it seemed to intensify 
and deepen her fears. They would be away all day 
—she would lose a whole day of Michael s visit. 
She glanced at him, but he did not speak. He was 
apparently quite ready to acquiesce in any plans that 
might be made. If he would only plead letters to 
write, any of the hundred excuses men can always 
make to escape from a tiresome engagement! But 
he went on eating his breakfast in happy unconscious¬ 
ness of what was passing in her mind. He didn’t 
mind then. . . . She felt that Gay was gnawing at 
the happiness that should have been hers. 

Gay was greedy of experience, of emotion. . . . 
She meant perhaps to conquer Michael. Already she 
had dispelled his lingering disapproval. 

“I wish you could come too, Anna,” said Michael, 
suddenly. 

“I could have come this afternoon. I shall only 
be out an hour or two.” 

“Don’t believe her, Mr. Nugent,” struck in Gay. 
“When she once gets there she always stays for 
hours. They won’t let her go.” 

Anna was silent. What was Gay trying to make 
him believe? The conversation seemed to have taken 
an almost monstrous turn, so distorted was it. 


BLUE DAYS AT SEA 


T 73 

“Anna will be very happy with her darling Selvis,” 
added Gay, in a bantering, ironical tone. 

“Well, you mustn’t let my being here interfere,’’, 
said Michael. “And I shall enjoy rowing about this 
lovely coast.” 

He leaned back in his chair. The beautiful head¬ 
land of San Gervasio was almost purple, seen through 
the haze, and dipped its long arm boldly into the sea. 
All along the coast little towns were beginning to flash 
ivory-white in the sunlight. The Bay was becoming 
a more definite blue. 

“I shall have to go over and see what’s the 
matter,” said Anna. “I shan’t stay long.” 

She wished she had had the courage to refuse the 
countess’s urgent invitation. The thought of 
Michael and Gay drifting away together in a boat 
was unbearable. 

2 

Michael leaned back, smoking a cigarette. The sea 
rippled about them, blue and silver and very calm. 
He was watching Gay as she pulled the boat with 
her steady, strong strokes. Her brown arms were 
bare; they were slender and muscular, more like a 
boy’s arms than a woman’s. It was pleasant to watch 
her rhythmic movements. 

“I’ll row presently,” he said. It was far more 
agreeable to sit there idly and watch her, her face a 
little blurred by the smoke of his cigarette. 

She was very pretty to-day, he thought, with her 
sunbrowned face, her piercing dark eyes rather like 
a bird’s, the slightly retrousse nose and slightly 
turned-down mouth. Her dark hair was uncovered 
and was very closely and plainly arranged, combed 
back from her square, emphatic brow, and knotted 
loosely at the nape of her neck. There was some- 


ANNA NUGENT 


i74 

thing almost gipsy-ish about her. And again he 
thought she was like a wild thing that at some remote 
period must have been captured and half-forcibly 
tamed. 

“You needn’t unless you like,” she answered coolly. 
“I’m used to rowing for hours. I love being on the 
sea.” Her eyes met his squarely. “I hope I wasn’t 
too much of a beast last night.” 

“You weren’t a beast at all,” said Michael, quickly. 
“You bore it beautifully. And it’s awfully good of 
you to be so forgiving to me to-day. I don’t deserve 
it.” 

“I think—you helped me,” said Gay, in a rather 
emotional tone. “You were most awfully kind.” 

“Was I? I’m glad of that, for I felt a brute. I 
was afraid you’d never forgive me for being the 
bearer of such bad news.” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Gay, lowering her 
eyes. 

“I’m so glad you realized that. Most people 
wouldn’t have.” 

“I can see, too, that everything was made too 
difficult for Rodney. And then when he stopped 
being so frightfully keen--” 

“I wish he’d come here on his way home,” said 
Michael. 

“It wouldn’t have made any real difference. Your 
mother never liked me. I felt sometimes as if we 
were fighting a prolonged duel.” 

Michael laughed. “Oh, she never fights. She just 
puts things on one side.” 

He believed his mother to be too lethargic to be 
capable of any sustained emotion. Once she had got 
rid of Gay, she had probably seldom given her an¬ 
other thought. She had just brushed her aside with 
one of her indolent yet effective gestures. 



BLUE DAYS AT SEA 


175 


“It almost made me give up being a Catholic,” said 
Gay, resting her oars and looking at him with flashing 
eyes. “I haven’t practiced my religion for ages.” 

“I’m sorry for that,” said Michael. “I’m sure it 
must make Anna very unhappy.” 

“Oh, then you’re not prejudiced like the rest?” 
she asked, surprised. 

“Yes. I’m passionately prejudiced in favor of the 
Catholic Church,” he said gravely. 

“I prayed and prayed for months about Rodney,” 
said the girl, “I must have wearied heaven with my 
prayers. I never prayed so hard for anything in all 
my life. I was abject—almost groveling . . .” She 
looked at him defiantly. 

He felt a little aghast at this confession. It made 
him fear for her, in her beauty, her recklessness, her 
rebellion. 

“Have you talked about it to Anna? She’s such 
a good Catholic—she might help you.” 

“No, I don’t ever mention it. She knows, of 
course, because we never go to Mass together, and 
we used to always. But I’m certain that’s why she 
can’t bear the thought of my going away. While 
I’m here there’s hope, you see, of snatching the brand 
from the burning!” 

“But I’ve always felt that Catholics must receive 
such enormous consolation from their religion, what¬ 
ever might happen to them,” said Michael, gravely. 
“Even when they’re torn to pieces by grief or hideous 
physical suffering. I’ve known cases when they’ve 
seemed to me like the most splendid martyrs—glad 
too that they had something to offer.” 

His shining, enthusiastic eyes were fixed upon 
some remote point of the horizon, as if he were 
hardly thinking of her at all. 

“Oh, the good ones may be like that,” said Gay. 


ANNA NUGENT 


176 

“Anna, for instance. She’d never say a word if she 
were tortured. But I’m not like Anna. I’ve been 
badly hurt and I know what it’s like.” 

“But you mustn’t give up praying,” said Michael, 
with a strange earnestness in his voice. “I quite envy 
you and Anna having been born, so to speak, in the 
Faith. It’s difficult for a man to change, and then 
I’ve never been a very religious person. But to an 
outsider like myself, it seems to be the one living 
Church. So don’t throw away your gift—your great 
gift. . . .” He looked at her almost wistfully. 

She was suddenly sobered. “It’s very difficult to 
go back. One would feel so ashamed—so hum¬ 
bled. . . 

“But it’s so splendid to think that you can go back 
—that your rebellion hasn’t shut you out forever! 
Perhaps it was only natural that you should rebel at 
first and take it hardly. But I want you to close that 
chapter altogether. Don’t think of it any more. 

Start a fresh page-” His voice held a warm, 

appealing note. 

Something in his words calmed her. She was 
thinking: “He’s better than Rodney-—Rodney could 
never have spoken like that.” Envy of Anna pos¬ 
sessed her like a fiery thing of teeth and claws. She 
would convert Michael of course. He was a fruit 
ripe for the plucking. He wasn’t, as anyone could see, 
far from the Kingdom. He could discern already 
something of its wonder, its golden radiance, its light 
shining down from the Light of Light. . . . And as 
she thought of him going forward enthusiastically, 
she felt for the first time that her own puny rebellion 
was like a little dark smudge placed wilfully by her¬ 
self on the shining page of her life. 

“I never dreamed you’d look at it like that. I 
thought you’d be just like the rest of your family,” 
she said. 



BLUE DAYS AT SEA 


177 

“Anna was the first to make me think of it,” he 
admitted. 

“Anna!” 

“Well,. I often feel if she hadn’t come to us in 
London, it might quite well have passed me by alto¬ 
gether.” 

“The Selvis are very pious,” said Gay. 

“I’m glad of that. I’m glad Anna’s got kind 
Catholic friends here.” 

His face was a little hard. He didn’t want to dis¬ 
cuss the Selvis then; the introduction of their name 
seemed to him to strike a jarring note. They were 
charming people; he had liked them both, and if 
he hadn’t wanted Anna to be his own wife, he might 
have welcomed the thought of her marrying this 
handsome young Italian. ... 

3 

They had almost reached the great headland of 
San Gervasio. Beneath its giant perpendicular tufa 
cliffs, thickly garmented with tall pine trees and low, 
close-growing scrub that seemed oddly enough to 
flourish upon that arid soil, the sea was colored gor¬ 
geously like a peacock’s breast. Calm as it was, the 
waves in breaking against that rocky inhospitable 
shore displayed a line of pure white foam, and 
surged backward so that the boat began to rock in the 
roughish water. Gay pulled with all her strength 
against the current. The physical effort was a relief 
to her in her turbulent mood; she yielded her body to 
the struggle with almost a sensation of joy. It was 
pleasant, too, to see the admiring expression in 
Michael’s blue eyes, as he watched her. 

“Let me help, won’t you?” he said. 

“No—no—I can manage quite well.” She laughed 
a little breathlessly. 


ANNA NUGENT 


178 

The musdes of her arms stood out like cords. 

“Pm all admiration,” he said lazily, smiling at her. 

He liked the suggestion she gave of eager, young 
strength, the practiced skill with which she wielded 
her oars and managed the boat. And against his will 
she interested him. He was beginning to understand 
so clearly why Rodney had fallen in love with her, 
and why Anna still loved her with such faithful de¬ 
votion. 

He enjoyed, too, the increased motion of the boat 
as they encountered the rougher water off the head¬ 
land. Sometimes a shower of spray dampened his 
hair. It was wonderful—this bright blue world of 
sea and sky, with that young athletic boyish figure 
poised so effectively in front of him, the head and 
shoulders outlined against that vivid blue back¬ 
ground. Perhaps, too, the increasing intimacy of 
their conversation stimulated his dawning interest in 
Gay. He was glad of the opportunity to learn more 
of Anna’s chosen friend and companion. To live thus 
with Gay might have its disadvantages for Anna, but 
at least, he thought, she need never be dull or bored. 
He could not help admiring Gay that day for her 
cool courage in facing what was a hopeless situation. 
Endurance always fortified the fibers of the will, mak¬ 
ing it a more perfect instrument. . . . He thought 
now there was something a little noble about Gay 
Lawton. . . . 

“It was horrid for you seeing Anna race off to the 
Selvis like that,” she said, as they reached the calmer 
water beyond the headland. 

Michael smiled. “I should be a fool to mind. 
Naturally she owes them a great deal.” The slight 
pain he had felt at the episode had vanished in the 
quite unexpected pleasantness of the present hour. 
Nor did Gay’s words strike him as indiscreet. Prob¬ 
ably with her keen discernment she might have 


BLUE DAYS AT SEA 


179 


guessed something. And in any case the Selvis were 
there, and from that ancient inescapable intimacy he 
felt that he had no right to try to detach Anna. To 
approach her with a declaration of love so as to ob¬ 
tain such rights would only undo all his patient work 
of the last year during which he had desired for her 
only perfect liberty. 

“I can’t bear Countess Selvi,” continued Gay. 
“And I’m not particularly attached to Benny. You 
see they hardly trouble to be polite to me now. I’m 
just Anna’s dame de compagtiie ... an inferior be¬ 
ing. I sometimes think Benny is jealous of me.” 

“Jealous of you? But why on earth-?” 

“Because I’m such an intimate friend of Anna’s.” 

She gave a short laugh. Her own efforts to di¬ 
minish Anna’s loyalty towards these old friends had 
proved unsuccessful. She had wanted Anna to take 
her part openly in the matter of that frustrated 
friendship with Benny. The mother and son had be¬ 
haved badly to her, and she wondered Anna could 
want to go on knowing them. But Anna had turned 
an obstinately deaf ear to these entreaties. 

“Has he asked her to marry him?” inquired 
Michael. He nerved himself for the blow. 

“If she has she’s never told me. But, then, Anna’s 
often secretive, so one can never be sure. The 
countess is preparing the way. And your coming may 
precipitate it.” 

“My coming? But what’s that got to do with it?” 

“She may think you’re a dangerous rival. She 
doesn’t know anything about your having come here 
to see me.” Her voice dropped. Michael felt 
vaguely embarrassed at this reference to his mission. 
For there had always been in his mind that strong 
secondary motive, undivulged, almost unacknowl¬ 
edged, of wishing to see Anna once more. 



180 ANNA NUGENT 

“She may think it was merely to see Anna/' Gay 
added. ... 

“It’s true I did want to see her,” said Michael, 
smiling. 

Then there was silence. Gay rowed, if possible, a 
little more vigorously than before. She had learned 
something, though not a great deal. Michael was 
different from the rest of his family; he was far 
more human. If he loved Anna, no amount of 
opposition would deter him from marrying her. He 
wouldn’t listen to all this talk about Catholics and a 
mixed marriage. But he would probably make every 
effort to become a Catholic himself. He was already 
on the high road; his grave face was set steadily 
toward Rome. Yes, he would leap over every 
barrier that divided him from the woman he so de¬ 
votedly loved. 

But if Anna married Selvi? She might perhaps 
rush blindly into that marriage, unconscious of 
Michael’s love. Of course he ought to speak—he 
ought to tell her. It was foolish to run such an ap¬ 
palling risk, and she wondered what his motive for 
silence could possibly be. 

But seeing Selvi there as a possible rival—seeing 
too how matters stood—he would surely speak to 
Anna before he left Italy. 

Gay sighed involuntarily. She thought that if 
Anna married Michael she would be the most per¬ 
fectly happy woman in the world. 

“We might land and have lunch,” she said sud¬ 
denly. 

They were drifting in with the tide to the beach 
below a tiny fishing hamlet built on a narrow strip of 
flat ground between the sea and the mountains that 
rose almost perpendicularly behind it. Not far off 
an ancient gray tower seemed to watch protectively 
over the little hamlet. On the hill above, a church 


BLUE DAYS AT SEA 


181 


with a white spire .stood upon an elevated plateau. 
A mule-path led up to it, winding through the gray 
olive orchards. 

On each side of the little bay, great headlands 
were thrust out boldly into the sea, so that the water 
there was calm, and ran blue to the very shore. 

Gay pulled the boat up to some rocks, fastened it 
securely, and then leapt out, refusing Michael’s prof- 

fprpfl 

“This is San Giuliano,” she said; “it's one of my 
favorite haunts. I was here only yesterday. The 
people know me quite well. I bring them things 
sometimes when they’re ill.” 

There was a little osteria close to the shore where 
they bought some sharp white wine to drink with 
their sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. They ate 
their simple meal on the strip of gray beach, and after¬ 
wards went back to the primitive little inn to drink 
some caffe espresso. Despite Anna’s absence, 
Michael enjoyed the picnic. He was in no hurry to 
return, but sat there smoking cigarettes with Gay in a 
shady spot near the sea. The view of the Bay was 
enclosed in a narrow frame formed by the great 
pine-trees that grew aslant upon the cliffs on either 
side. Their spreading boughs silhouetted against the 
sky were of a vivid lustrous green. Such a picture, 
Michael thought, Stevenson might have had in his 
mind when he wrote: 

I will make a palace fit for you and me 

Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. . . . 

Anna found Countess Selvi lying upon a chaise- 
longue in the loggia of her villa, which overlooked the 
sea from the heights above the little town. 

She held out a slim hand in welcome. 

“My dear child, how good of you to come! I 


ANNA NUGENT 


182 

hope I’m not very cruel to tear you away from the 
handsome cousin?” 

“Oh, no—he’s gone out with Gay in the boat.” 

“But they were disappointed, perhaps, that you 
didn’t accompany them?” 

Anna shook her head. “I’m sure they didn’t 
mind.” 

She wished, indeed, that they had appeared to 
mind a little more—to share in her own disappoint¬ 
ment which had seemed to her almost like a minor 
tragedy. To lose this whole beautiful blue day of 
Michael’s company! 

Gay, in that fresh white knitted dress, short- 
sleeved and lownecked, that hung so loosely about 
her square boyish figure, had looked almost beautiful. 
Her face had borne no trace of last night’s tears. 

“Gay is very unhappy,” said Anna. “Her en¬ 
gagement to Rodney Nugent is broken off. He didn’t 
behave well to her. It had been going on for a long 
time, but his parents didn’t approve. Then when he 
came back from India he fell in love with someone 
else. That is why Michael came here—to tell 
her-” 

“Ob!” said Countess Selvi, a little astonished. 
This revelation imparted a new light to the sudden 
and apparently unexpected arrival of Michael 
Nugent. Perhaps she herself had jumped too hastily 
at what seemed to her an obvious conclusion. 

She held the Italian view, that as soon as a girl 
grew up a suitable marriage should be arranged for 
her. No compulsion was used, for if the girl was 
disinclined to marry, no steps of the kind were taken. 
The countess, however, held the usual opinion that 
unless a girl had a definite vocation for the religious 
life, she preferred to marry and have a home of her 
own. There was less independence in Italy than in 
England, where, however, missalliances were of far 



BLUE DAYS AT SEA 


183 


more frequent occurrence. Anna’s complete, and as 
it seemed to her unnatural, independence, which was 
apparently smiled upon by the elder Nugents, had 
always struck the countess as deplorable. . ... She 
felt a strong desire to rescue her from a situation so 
detrimental to matrimony. 

She was fond of the girl, and Benedetto, after his 
brief tempestuous flirtation with Gay, had returned 
to that condition of respectful admiration of Anna 
which the countess so desired should develop into a 
permanent love. He had always liked Anna, regard¬ 
ing her in the old days almost as a little sister, and 
he had often thought that perhaps some day they 
would be engaged to be married. The brief, affair 
with Gay had resulted in a complete and rapid dis¬ 
illusionment the moment he had heard she .was en¬ 
gaged to another man, a fact which she had discreetly 
hidden from him. 

The countess, as has been seen, did not approve of 
Gay; she even considered her a dangerous young 
woman, and felt that in time her influence might de¬ 
stroy something that was beautifully fresh and un¬ 
spoilt in Anna. It was whispered too, that Miss 
Lawton had grown careless about her religion, and 
indeed she was seldom seen now with Anna in the 
beautiful old fifteenth century Cathedral. 

“Perhaps she will transfer her affections to the 
brother now,” said the countess, lightly. 

It was a shot at a venture, but it struck Anna 
sharply. She reddened a little and did not speak. 
She thought of those two, out. together upon that 
wonderful blue sea, speaking intimately of Gay’s 
affairs; Michael comforting her, perhaps, as he knew 
so well how to do. Since their interview last night 
out on the moonlit terrace, their mutual attitude had 
undergone a subtle transformation. And Anna knew 
that, left alone with him, Gay would, consciously or 


184 


ANNA NUGENT 


unconsciously, use all her power to charm him, to 
weave spells about him, just as she had done in the 
past with Rodney and Benny. . . . 

“He is quite charming—the handsome cousin,” 
said the countess. 

“Yes,” agreed Anna, absently. 

“But I didn’t ask you to come here in order to talk 
about him,” said Countess Selvi, pleasantly. “I 
wanted to have a little intimate chat with you, Anna 
darling. I wanted to talk to you about your own 
dear self. . . .” 

Anna looked at her enquiringly. She was very 
far from suspecting the truth, and was quite unaware 
that all this time the countess had been adroitly “feel¬ 
ing her way.” 

“About yourself and Benedetto!” 

“Benedetto!” 

“My dear, we are both very anxious you should 
overlook that little foolishness with Miss Lawton. I 
know you will never believe me if I were to tell you 
of the way she led him on, just as if she had made up 
her mind to marry him. Any young man would have 
had his head just temporarily turned, and Benedetto 
is in some ways very young and unsuspecting.” 

“But I have never blamed either of them! Why 
should you wish me to overlook it?” said Anna, still 
mystified. 

“Oh, my dear child, it’s because Benny wishes to 
marry you! He has loved you all the time, but he is 
so afraid you may not be able to forgive him. He 
knows that his conduct must have seemed inex¬ 
cusable. ...” 

Anna seemed to withdraw into herself. Her body 
as well as her straight-cut little features insensibly 
stiffened. She had never believed in Gay’s Ironical 
allusions to Selvi’s devotion. She did not reply, and 


BLUE DAYS AT SEA 185 

her whole form acquired a rigidity that was unusual 
to her. 

“I’ve sometimes feared that Miss Lawton would 
use her influence to prevent your marrying Benny. 
Especially now—when she feels she has a grudge 
against us. But I don’t want you to let yourself be 
influenced by her, Anna dear. I want you to examine 
your own heart, and find out if you wish for this mar¬ 
riage. I need not say that it would make me as well 
as Benny very happy.” 

Anna felt stupefied. Life, which had seemed to her 
for the most part such a simple thing, had suddenly 
become most cruelly complicated. Michael—Gay— 
Benedetto—herself—they had all become actors in a 
little drama. Until yesterday she had believed that 
one of these days she would be Michael’s wife. His 
greeting of her had been so full of an eager affection 
that she could hardly believe he did not in some sort 
reciprocate her love. But to-day she could ^foresee 
nothing of what this sudden new intimacy with Gay 
might bring. She knew Gay’s powe r, so lightly, so even 
carelessly wielded, so deadly in its effect. She had 
seen Rodney—and yes, even Benedetto—succumb to 
it. For one whole summer Benedetto had certainly 
been at Gay’s feet. Then something had occurred to 
effect his disillusionment. Anna never knew quite 
what Gay had said or done, nor what part the count¬ 
ess had played, nor even whether it was simply the 
fact of her being secretly engaged to someone else 
that had opened Benny’s usually astute eyes. Gay’s 
adorers were by no means noted for their fidelity. 
Perhaps she was aware of this, and it had given her 
that queer little touch of bitterness. 

But if she ever conquered Michael? . . . There 
was a fundamental fidelity and constancy about 
Michael that Anna recognized with aching 
heart. . . . 


186 


ANNA NUGENT 


“But I’m not thinking of marriage,” she managed 
at last to say in a voice that was not quite steady de¬ 
spite her efforts to control it. “It isn’t that I don’t 
like Benny—we’ve been friends such a long time. 
But I’m happy here, in my life with Gay. I don’t 
want to change it.” 

“But you can’t go on living at Villa Caterina with 
Miss Lawton forever. She is certain to marry, and 
then what will you do?” 

Certain to marry? . . . Anna flinched. 

“Perhaps the idea is too novel . . . you need time 
to think it over—to ask your director, and pray for 
guidance.” The countess lowered her voice. She 
was aware that no director would urge a girl to marry 
a man, however eligible, if she did not feel she cared 
sufficiently for him. “Don’t keep Benny waiting too 
long,” she added, with a smile. 

“Oh, but you must tell him at once! I shouldn’t 
like to keep him waiting at all. I’m quite sure that 
I don’t care for him like that. Only as a dear, dear 
friend. . . .” 

“But my dear, you can’t decide such an important 
matter off-hand like that without consulting anyone, 
or at least taking the advice of your English guard¬ 
ians. I am sure they would be delighted to hear of 
it—a young man a little older than yourself, with a 
comfortable fortune. Then he is a good Catholic, 
and you would settle down permanently in our be¬ 
loved Italy!” 

The countess stretched out her hand with its 
beautiful rings and laid it upon Anna’s. 

“My guardians have no authority over me, now,” 
said Anna, withdrawing her hand. 

“It would do no harm to consult them. You 
might even ask this nice cousin!” 

Ask Michael! . . . The thought filled her with a 
chill of dismay. 


BLUE DAYS AT SEA 187 

“But in any case you mustn’t listen to Miss 
Lawton!” 

“I’m sure you’re wrong in thinking Gay would 
interfere!” 

A week ago—two days ago—Gay would surely 
have laughed such a suggestion to scorn. But now 
Anna could tell her nothing. In the light of this 
new conviction she discerned with subtle penetration 
Gay’s attitude towards Michael. A cold darkness 
seemed to invade her whole being, chilling her very 
heart. She saw that her own marriage with 
Benedetto would serve to leave Gay perfectly free to 
pursue her present plan to its ultimate bourne. 

“I daresay she’d be glad if I married,” said Anna. 
The words were wrung from her. They were merely 
acquiescent, quite free from bitterness. 

“Glad?” 

“It would leave her so free!” 

“Free? When I was just thinking how free you 
would be if she’d only take it into her head to go 
away!” 

Anna perceived that her own point of view had 
shifted. Yes, it was Gay who must wish for perfect 
freedom, to build her own wrecked life anew, perhaps 
with the aid of Michael. She saw desolately how 
immensely her own marriage with Benedetto would 
react upon Gay. It would leave her so free to weave 
those spells, that subtle enchantment, about 
Michael. ... 

But at this thought Anna was conscious of a fierce 
rebellion within her soul, bringing about an incredible 
change of attitude towards Gay Lawton. She seemed 
to see her endowed with a personality, a tempera¬ 
ment, that were quite sinister. She saw Gay deliber¬ 
ately setting about to detach Michael from his old 
allegiance. But alas, Michael would be false to no 
former love. Anna had so long been in his eyes only 


i88 


ANNA NUGENT 


a child. ‘The little girl—the dear little cousin. , , 
There was a sting in this sudden recollection of 
Mrs. Nugent’s lethargic but pregnant pronounce¬ 
ments. 

For years Anna had dreamed that Michael would 
become a Catholic and for years she had prayed for 
this intention. It had seemed to her almost terrible 
that this being, so dear to her, should be outside the 
wonderful consolations, the spiritual gifts, of the 
Faith which were hers. For always she had visual¬ 
ized the Catholic Church as a golden light spreading 
over sea and land, even to the uttermost parts of the 
earth, and everything and everyone that remained 
outside it seemed to her to be enveloped in a gray 
mist. She pitied those wanderers in the outer mist 
and darkness, some very far from the Faith, others 
still more greatly deluded, believing that they pos¬ 
sessed it. She could not bear to think of Michael 
there. Gay could never help him to approach that 
light. And now that he was here at Sant’ Elena, 
Anna seemed to be fighting a duel with Gay for the 
possession of Michael’s soul. . . . 

It wasn’t only her love for him, she told herself, 
though that too played its part, for human and divine 
things were so closely, so inextricably interwoven. It 
was something more than love, greater than love, as 
all those must know who have ever prayed for the 
conversion of a soul. 

She felt she could give Michael what Gay in her 
restless, worldly ambtion could never give him. 

And yet she owed—they all owed—reparation to 
Gay. . . . 

“Think it over,” said Countess Selvi, “and I shall 
tell Benny that you can’t give him an answer just yet. 
He must wait. Pazienza!” She smiled at Anna. 
Then struck by a sudden thought she added: “You 


BLUE DAYS AT SEA 189 

are such a child I need hardly ask you! But there is 
no one else, is there ?” 

Anna gave her a strange, almost terrified look. 
The countess had suddenly assumed an important role 
in the little drama. And Anna had the feeling that 
she would even force her to act against her will. 
She wasn’t to be allowed to remain a supine specta¬ 
tor, watching the slow, difficult, painful unraveling 
of the little tangle. And then in the midst of it all 
she suddenly found herself wondering what Gay and 
Michael were doing at that moment. What they 
were saying to each other. Gay perhaps a little 
flushed and excited—she always looked beautiful in 
her own strange way when she was excited—she was 
almost fiery then, a thing of flame, eager, alive. . . . 

“No . . . there is no one . . .” stammered Anna. 
She rose and held out her hand. “I must go, I’ve so 
many things to see to. I hope you’ll soon be better. 
The hurried, stammered phrases seemed to possess 
no meaning at all. She looked at the countess as if 
she had been a stranger, yet a stranger who had a 
remote power over her. It frightened her, just as 
the thought of Benny so oddly frightened her now. 

She walked back down the steep path through the 
olive orchards till she reached the broad white high 
road that led into the town of Sant’ Elena with its 
arcaded streets, its groups of busy lace-makers chatter¬ 
ing over their work. Looking back, she could see the 
Selvis’ villa peeping out from its lofty nest of verdure. 
But she could not possibly bring herself to regard it 
as her future home. Countess Selvi, with her devotion 
to her son, her acquiescence in Italian customs, would 
be little likely to smile approval upon a separate 
establishment for her son and his wife. To live always 
with the countess and Benny—the prospect filled 
Anna with a quite definite alarm. She turned away 


190 


ANNA NUGENT 


abruptly from the contemplation of that huge square 
palatial abode with its flat red roof, its torrents of 
bougainvillea and honeysuckle. 

Anna was tired when she reached the Villa 
Caterina. She felt unaccountably depressed, almost 
as if she were going to be forced into this marriage 
against her will. It was ridiculous of course, she 
told herself; such a thing as that couldn’t possibly 
happen. 

Presently she took her writing materials into the 
loggia and began to answer some letters. It was 
nearly luncheon-time, but many hours must still 
elapse before Gay and Michael would return from 
their expedition. They would go to some distant 
spot. Gay rowing tirelessly and prolonging the holi¬ 
day as much as possible. Michael would be simply 
acquiescent. 

“Perhaps they would marry, if I were out of the 
way,” thought Anna. 

The thought tormented her. But she couldn’t 
fight. There was something derogatory about that. 
If Michael wanted to marry Gay, she wouldn’t lift a 
finger to prevent it. 

She wondered again what they were saying to 
each other, over there in some quiet hidden sea- 
washed spot behind the giant purple arm of San 
Gervasio. 


CHAPTER X 


A CONVERSION 


HEN at last after interminable hours Anna 



vv heard their voices as she sat on the terrace, 
the moon was already high in the heavens, and the 
tuberoses, stocks, and jessamine in the garden were 
filling the air with their heavy fragrance. Mingled 
with the scent there was a salt freshness from the sea. 
Bats whirred past in their swift, nervous, purpose¬ 
less flight. Low in the southwest sky the star Spica 
shone with an unusual brilliance. 

Anna went to the top of the steps and looked down 
into the cool dark shadows of the water, faintly 
touched to argent in the moonlight. 

“Is that you, Michael?” 

And it was Gay’s voice that answered cheerily in 
husky, excited tones: 

“Yes, here we are! I’m afraid we’re awfully late, 
but you must forgive us. We’ve had a simply topping 
day.” 

She ran lightly up to the terrace and kissed Anna 
with an almost patronizing affection. Michael fol¬ 
lowed more slowly. As he neared the top of the 
steps he said: “I hope you didn’t think anything had 
happened to us, Anna? We took a long walk at 
San Giuliano and lost our way.” 

“Well, we’re here now, safe and sound,” said Gay, 
“and I’m sure Anna never gave us a thought! You 


i 9 2 ANNA NUGENT 

forget she’s been with the Selvis all day, haven’t you, 
Anna?” 

They walked toward the house. Anna answered 
slowly: 

u No, I didn’t stay all day. I came back to lunch. 
The countess wasn’t well.” 

In ordinary circumstances Anna would probably 
have found an early opportunity of telling Gay the 
substance of that interview, and they would have 
laughed over it together, and agreed that such a 
marriage was impossible. She would have been 
braced, too, by Gay’s satirical opposition to the 
scheme. But now she felt that she could never tell 
her about it. She knew by instinct that no such 
opposition would be forthcoming. She felt that Gay 
would only shrug her shoulders and say: “It’s what 
we’ve all been waiting for, Anna!” 

No, it was better to keep the affair a secret, at 
any rate as long as Michael remained at the Villa 
Caterina. She hoped earnestly that Gay would not 
discover anything about the interview. But she had 
a way of finding out things when her curiosity was 
at all stimulated, and Countess Selvi was not a silent 
woman. Aware of Gay’s influence over Anna, the 
countess might even make an attempt to enlist her 
sympathy and support. But Anna rejected that idea 
as unlikely. It was impossible to conceive of such a 
rapprochement between the two women. 

Above all, Anna didn’t want the matter to reach 
Michael’s ears. She was so afraid that he might 
advise her to marry Benedetto. Then she would 
know for certain that he didn’t love her—that she 
was still only a child to him—the dear little cousin 
to whom he had always been kind in an elder- 
brotherly fashion. 

She noticed that when the two returned from that 
protracted picnic they were “Gay” and “Michael” 


A CONVERSION 


193 

to each other. In those few hours their friendship 
had become an established fact. 

That night at dinner Gay seemed to Anna quite 
changed. There was something hard and bright and 
unapproachable about her. Her self-assurance was 
emphasized. She seemed to relegate Anna to a sec¬ 
ondary place. She talked and laughed with Michael, 
and Anna wondered if he noticed that she herself 
was almost left out of the conversation. But no— 
men didn’t notice these things. And he seemed to 
.enjoy talking to Gay, and discussing their mutual 
adventures, in which Anna had had no share. 

It was true that they did not leave her again for 
a whole day, but often when Gay suggested that they 
should walk to a distant church in some mountain 
village, she advised Anna to remain at home, and 
said it would be too far for her. Anna was not 
capable of walking such immense distances as Gay, 
whose walking powers were almost equal to those 
of a man, and she readily consented to remain at 
home. But always there was a little chill of disap¬ 
pointment because she was losing if only a few hours 
of Michael’s stay. 

A kind pf constraint arose between her and 
Michael during those first days of his visit, and she 
blamed herself for it, thinking that she must have 
done or said something to displease him. She was 
too generous to attribute all the blame to Gay. 

Michael moved between the two women uncon¬ 
scious that anything untoward was happening. He 
was very simple in his acceptance of ordinary events, 
and read no ulterior significance into them. It was 
Gay who pointed out to him one day that Anna 
seemed changed. 

“Changed? In what way?” he said abruptly. 

“I put it down to the fact that Benny wants to 
marry her, and she’s beginning to fall in love. It’s 


ANNA NUGENT 


194 

time he asked her to marry him if he means to. 
Or perhaps the countess will make the demarches 
to you, as you’re such a near relation—they often 
arrange marriages like that here. Wouldn t it be 

'“a? she Ottered the light sentences she watched 
him with a swift, close scrutiny; she wanted to see 
the effect upon him of this suggestion—that any 
change in Anna could not concern himself at all, but 
was wholly connected with Selvi. 

“I sincerely hope she will do nothing of the kind I 
said Michael, almost violently. “Why should Anna 

marry her son?” . , „ . . , 

Yet, remembering his little talk with the countess 
in the garden, he felt perfectly certain that this was 
in her mind. He only hoped that Anna wouldn t be 

^But when he came to consider the matter he* felt 
that there really was an appreciable change m 
Anna. She was inclined to efface herself. She was 
elusive, as she had never been in London. She never 
seemed at all eager to accompany them in their walks, 
their expeditions on the sea. She was thoughtful 
and pensive, even a little sad. Miss Lawton’s de* 
termined gayety seemed to quench her. 


2 

When Sunday came Anna tapped at Gay’s door. 
She had risen early as usual to go to Mass, and she 
kept on hoping that Gay would relent and accompany 
her. 

“I’m ready. Are you coming, Gay?” she called 
softly. 

Gay half opened the door and looked out. 

“No, Michael and I have arranged to bathe.” 


A CONVERSION 


195 


Anna went downstairs, and into the garden. It 
was a very still calm summer morning. Land and 
sea and sky all seemed half transparent in that magic 
crystal clearness. 

Suddenly coming from the terrace she saw Michael 
advancing toward her. He was dressed in a gray 
flannel suit, and carried his straw hat in his hand. 

“Are you going to Mass?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Mayn’t I come with you, Anna?” 

“Oh, yes,” she said, “but I thought you were 
going to bathe this morning.” 

“So I am. But I want to go to Mass first. I’ve 
been waiting for you.” 

As they left the garden and began to walk down 
the broad white road that led to Sant’ Elena, he said 
shyly: 

“I hardly ever seem to see you now. And I 
thought when I came we should be together all day.” 

Anna was silent. She scarcely knew what to say. 
But her smile was reassuring. She was relieved to 
think that Michael had wanted her, had perhaps 
missed her. 

On each side of the road high walls rose, built 
of rough stone that seemed to blossom spontane¬ 
ously. Clumps of valerian made a decorative pink 
mist fringing the top of them, and through the inter¬ 
stices yellow toadflax and sprigs of honeysuckle 
pushed their way valiantly. 

“Even your walls seem to flower here,” said 
Michael. 

Anna walked sedately by his side. Her black hat 
almost hid her face from him; he could see only 
the perfect outline of her lips and chin. He won¬ 
dered how it had happened that he had let so many 
days go by scarcely seeing her, accepting her self- 
effacement without a single struggle to overcome it. 


i 9 6 ANNA NUGENT 

It was the fault of this other girl who always wanted 
him to do something or go somewhere, who wished 
to show him the view from some distant point or 
climb an almost inaccessible mule-path through for¬ 
ests of chestnut and cypress. She captured him in 
the toils of her own abundant energy, which always 
held a kind of joy that was not unattractive to him. 
Anna, cool, slow and pensive, never held out a hand 
to succor him. It was as if seeing their enjoyment 
of this perfect summer weather, she had P^ r P ose y 
thrown them together. Perhaps, too, she had felt 
it would take Gay’s thoughts from her own sorrow 
to be with Michael. And if this were the case her 
plan had certainly succeeded, for Gay showed no 
sign of grief and seemed only to have abandoned 
herself to the pleasure of the hour. Her brave 
endurance of that sorrow had won his sympathy, and 
besides she was a capital companion, tireless, always 
good-humored, capable, resourceful. 

Then too, he had never come to the Villa Caterina 
ostensibly to see Anna. He had felt it was too soon 
as yet to end that hateful self-imposed time of pro- 
batiort. 

Perhaps he was a fool, he told himself. Why 
should he look calmly on and watch Benny step in 
and secure the prize he so coveted? Why shouldn’t 
he at least show her that she could choose between 
them? ... 

Now finding himself alone with Anna in the cool 
sweet freshness of that summer morning, flower- 
scented, and brackish with the light breeze from the 
sea, it seemed to him that he had been false, too, 
to his own obscure purpose. He had let himself be 
swung heedlessly along by Gay’s energy. There was 
tenacity about her, too. She had the qualities that 
Anna lacked. Anna would receive graciously and 
gratefully the gifts life offered to her, but she would 


A CONVERSION 


197 

never seek them in that eager, restless, importunate 
fashion. . . . 

They passed along the narrow arcaded streets, 
where the shop-windows were all hidden behind their 
stout wooden shutters. There were not many people 
about, and most of these were wending their way 
toward the Cathedral—a great Romanesque building 
that stood in a piazza of its own. Its dome and 
campanile rose loftily above the huddled roofs of 
the houses, and were silhouetted clearly against the 
pale blue of the sky. Below it in the wide piazza 
the daily fruit and vegetable market was in progress, 
and the masses of figs, apricots, and peaches mingling 
with the scarlet hues of the tomatoes and peperoni 
made wonderful blots of color amid the delicate 
green verdure. To MichaePs English eyes, the 
quantity and quality and cheapness of the fruit seemed 
almost incredible. 

They entered the Cathedral, and he followed Anna 
up the aisle. It was quiet and cool and gray there 
at that early hour, and amid that coolness and gray¬ 
ness the lights upon the altar shone out with a vivid 
illumination. 

A priest came in and went up to the altar. The 
Holy Sacrifice had begun. Michael knelt down by 
Anna’s side. It seemed to him then, that the little 
barrier of ice that had arisen between them was 
utterly broken down. They were here together. He 
took a book from his pocket and followed the Mass 
with a deep earnestness. 

It was when he saw Anna rise and go to the altar 
rail that a sharp pain seemed to stab his very heart. 
He remembered the day when he had first seen her 
receive Holy Communion at Farm Street. He 
watched her, and as he did so two figures passed 
him. They were Countess Selvi and her son. 
Michael turned away and hid his face in his hands. 


igS 


ANNA NUGENT 


He felt the separation then with all his being. It 
seemed to him final and ultimate, the separation of 
soul from soul. She was so near and yet so infinitely 
removed. He realized for the first time that all his 
surface sympathy with the Catholic religion counted 
for nothing at all. He was outside, he was separated, 
and through his own fault, since he had made no 
practical formal profession of faith. And yet he 
had the Faith. He had been satisfied with outward 
things—with going to Mass and Benediction. But 
the sacraments were for him still behind closed doors; 
he could not approach them. And for the first time 
he wondered why he had been so complacently satis¬ 
fied with so small a participation. He realized, as 
all converts must do at one time or another, the 
years of loss and emptiness which might have been 
so abundantly filled. He could have wept now over 
those wasted years when he might have seen yet did 
not see, when he might have heard and did not 


It*came* to him with a sense of shock, as if he had 
been very roughly and abruptly awakened from a 
profound slumber. There is always something 
almost physical in the violent first onslaught of grace 
in the human heart, sweet, irresistible and yet com¬ 
pletely dominating. Eyes and ears are unsealed and 
constrained to see and hear. Michael felt as it 
strength had gone out of him. He longed to turn 

and flee. It was as if veils had been torn down. . . . 

He had forgotten Anna. She had no part in this 
struggle, this strange spiritual adventure that had 
overtaken him. But he knew that the period of 
waiting and weighing and judging and deciding was 
over. He must go forward. The lights upon the 
altar seemed to be beckoning to him. They were 
filled with a mystical radiance. He felt shaken and 
cowed, yet supremely happy. He thought of the 


A CONVERSION 


199 


man who had been struck down on the road to 
Damascus, and had arisen blind yet seeing, humbled 
to the dust yet ready from that moment to endure 
perils and bodily suffering and ignominy for the sake 
of that One who had called to him in words of such 
appealing sweetness upon the way. 

When Anna came back to her seat, Michael was 
no longer there. He had retired to a shadowy corner 
of the church where he could pray alone. Even 
Anna’s beloved presence would have seemed an in¬ 
terruption then. 

He wondered then if those born to the Faith ever 
knew that curiously intimate appeal which is vouch¬ 
safed to the convert, so suddenly, so inexplicably, 
that to each one the actual moment of conviction 
and yielding seems always in some sense a mystery 
that can never be described or put into words. . . . 

Michael walked back alone to the Villa Caterina. 
He was unwilling, just then, to see or speak to any¬ 
one. His thoughts were full of the strange and 
mystical hour through which he had just passed, and 
which seemed to him entirely remote from his usual 
daily life. 

‘‘After all, we’ve been simply !deprived of our 
spiritual rights in England,” he thought. 

Brought up as he had been in the normal, Prot¬ 
estant, slightly free-thinking atmosphere, such as is 
to be found in most families belonging to neither 
extreme of the established Church, he had yet always 
felt that the Reformation had been one of those 
incredible and wicked blunders that have somehow 
shaken the course of history as few wise and prudent 
and just measures have ever done. His historical 
sense had always been outraged by it, and in its 
effect upon religion he could see nothing but disaster. 
One Fold and One Shepherd—and then an evil 


200 


ANNA NUGENT 


German monk of no particular intellectual capacity 
simply stepped in and effected the disruption of that 
ideal which had flourished in the West for over 
fifteen hundred years. Incredible, too, that the new 
teaching—for the most part the frank and deadly 
negation of the old—should have swept like a fiery 
blast of destruction over almost the whole of North¬ 
ern Europe. And even now to return to the Faith, 
the one true Fold, a man had always to face the 
disapproval, contempt, and often also the hostility 
of his fellow-men. But in the various High Church 
movements, becoming more frequent and pronounced 
in the Church of England, Michael could discern a 
sick striving for that lost inheritance and for those 
ancient rights, a gesture, althought an impotent one, 
toward the old Faith, an effort to regain what had 
been forfeited, doomed in its very essence to failure, 
since that return must be accomplished independently 
by each individual soul. The Fold couldn’t exist 
without the Shepherd, living, visible, guided by the 
Holy Spirit—the Sovereign Pontiff, to whom alle¬ 
giance and submission were due. Many he knew 
pinned their hopes to some far-off corporate action, 
but even if millions knocked at the Door the sub¬ 
mission must still be individual. And there were 
added that day about three thousand souls. . . . 

Living, growing, progressing, after nearly two 
thousand years, the Catholic Church held her divine 
credentials in her hands for all men to see. And 
each day the responsibility of those who saw and 
could still refuse to accept became a more grave, a 
more deadly thing. . . . 

“I mustn’t wait,” he thought, “I must ask Anna 
what I’d better do.” A kind of fierce exultation 
informed him. He was looking at life with new 
eyes. And he wanted passionately that all the world 
should share the joy that was his. 


A CONVERSION 


201 


3 

When he reached the gate of the Villa Caterina, 
Michael turned back again and walked toward the 
little town. He wanted to meet Anna—he longed 
with boyish eagerness to tell her. Yet when at last 
he saw her in the distance he felt almost embarrassed. 

When Anna saw him coming back toward her, 
her face lit up with pleasure. The constraint between 
them had surely vanished forever. It had all been 
an evil dream—this fear of Gay. And to Gay he 
could only have been one of many, never the one 
dear and beloved thing in the world. 

“I liked coming—I wish I could tell you how 
much,” said Michael, as he came up to her. 

His bright enthusiastic eyes were shining with a 
curious light. She thought—and then put the 
thought from her as fantastic—that he looked like a 
man who had seen a vision. She was quick to recog¬ 
nize the change, and she longed to know the reason 
of it. 

“What happened?” she said. “Do tell me, 
Michael!” 

Her face as she raised it to his was all soft with 
a kind of wondering sympathy. 

“Well, it’s been rather overwhelming,” saicf 
Michael. “You see, when I was there this morning I 
felt I couldn’t wait any more. ...” 

“Wait?” She was puzzled. 

“I mean I want to become a Catholic as soon as 
I can. As soon as they’ll have me.” 

“Oh, Michael,” she said, and there were tears iq 
her eyes, “I was so praying for you.” 

During Mass did not all pray for their par¬ 
ticular intentions, believing, too, that these prayers 
would be offered to Almighty God with the sublime 
Sacrifice of the altar? 


202 


ANNA NUGENT 


“There’s an English priest staying at Sant’ Elena 
now. Perhaps you would like to talk to him. 

“Yes,” he assented eagerly. 

“He would prepare you—and if you could stay 
here long enough he could receive you. 

“You’d let me stay?” 

“But of course. As long as you like—as long as 

you can.” , . „ - A 

“I haven’t had a holiday for such ages, said 
Michael, “that I’m sure my father wont mind it l 

stay on a bit.” . u 

London and the London office seemed especially 
distasteful to him just then on this morning of crystal 
clearness, of magic silver lights, and transparent blue 

shadows. , , « T 

“We mustn’t lose any time,’ he continued; l 
shall want to see this English priest as soon as pos- 

“Oh, I think you could see him to-day, Michael,’’ 
said Anna, earnestly. 

She went up to her room and took ott her hat, 
her thoughts full of this abrupt decision of Michael s. 
But the final act of conversion was often sudden and 
abrupt. “I went and I washed and I see. So 
simple and yet so significant. . . . She had known 
few converts in her life, but they had all told her 
the same thing. The same story of striving and 
struggling and almost despair, and then suddenly an 
end to it all, just as if one had been stunned into 
peace. And at the last there was an irresistible 
impulse not to be denied, sweet and violent and full 
of a kind of gentle fierceness impossible to with¬ 
stand. 

Michael walked out to the breakfast table, set as 
usual upon the terrace. Because the sun was so 
powerful now at such an early hour an orange-colored 
awning had been arranged there, set upon high poles, 
under the trees. 


A CONVERSION 


203 


Gay was already sitting at the table. She looked 
up as he approached. 

“You didn’t come for a swim, Michael. The 
water was so warm—it was delicious.” 

Her face was still glowing from her plunge into 
that warm, buoyant water. 

“No, I met Anna, and went to Mass with her, 
he said. # . 

“That was very diplomatic of you,” said Gay, in 
her satirical voice. 

“Oh, no, it wasn’t. I wanted to go—I liked to 
go.” Her words had jarred upon him. 

“I’m sure Anna was delighted.” 

“Well, you see I nearly always went with her in 
London. It was like old times.” 

“Was Benny there?” 

“Yes—with his mother.” 

“He often goes early—just to see Anna. bhe 
laughed. “It’s a charming romance-—they’re such 
a pretty couple.” 

She spoke as if the affair were in sure process 
of accomplishment. But Michael would not permit 
himself to believe it. 

“You must come back for the wedding, Michael, 
and give the bride away!” . 

He laughed good-humoredly. It was impossible 
to take offense, or to show how greatly he disliked 
the idea. 

“All right—I’ll come!” . , , 

To-day he didn’t feel afraid of Benny. Anna had 
seemed so close to him, so dear, on that homeward 
walk. Even Gay’s teasing, ironical words couldn t 

really hurt him. . 

Anna appeared. “Oh, why didn t you begin? 

“We were waiting for our hostess,” said Gay, 

demurely. . , , 

Anna took up the coffee pot and Gay noticed that 


2°4 


ANNA NUGENT 


her hand trembled a little. Something had hap¬ 
pened to disturb her. Something had been said per¬ 
haps on that walk to and from Mass. . w . 

Gay turned to Michael and began to talk to him. 
She was so full of spirits and energy it seemed im¬ 
possible that she could only just have sustained and 
emerged from one of the most humiliating experi¬ 
ences that can befall a woman. At first in the hour 
of open defeat she had shown bitterness and violence 
of emotion. But now she could turn this bright 
glowing face, these challenging glances and provoc¬ 
ative smiles to Michael, as if nothing untoward had 
happened. 

She was looking very pretty this morning in a dress 
of softest shell-pink. Always since Michael’s coming 
she had taken particular care to dress daintily and 
well, she who was ordinarily careless, and of late 
had been even slovenly about her personal appear¬ 
ance. Her beauty and charm that morning were 
incontestable, and she seemed to be aware of it, and 
aware, too, of her own power. She was using all 
her ample past experience to enchain Michael. Was 
he conscious of it? Was he just lending himself 
acquiescently to the game, knowing that it was only 
a game, and that his partner—or opponent, who 
could say which?—was a beautiful and charming 
woman whose evident desire was to please him? 
Always when she saw them together, Michael’s atti¬ 
tude towards Gay struck Anna as enigmatical and 
ambiguous, even this morning when his mind must 
surely be so full of other things. . . . 

He seemed to be attracted by her, almost against 
his will. 

And again Anna made a strong resolution not to 
be dragged into the little drama. She preferred 
to be a cool, unembarrassed spectator whose heart 
might be wrung by what she saw, but who would 


A CONVERSION 


205 


never lift a finger to arrest the progress of events. 
She couldn’t fight. . . . There was something de¬ 
rogatory in the thought. Her cool, fastidious sense 
of dignity, an innate pride that was as dainty as 
physical cleanliness, prohibited any kind of competi¬ 
tion. If Michael loved her, he would surely tell 
her so, and make her the happiest woman in the 
world. 

In the matter of religion he would be with her, 
heart and soul. 

“I mean to bathe again from the boat this morn¬ 
ing. Italo is going to take me out,” said Gay, light¬ 
ing a cigarette. “Will you come, Michael?” 

He hesitated a moment and then said: “Yes, I’ll 
come. Won’t you, Anna?” 

“There wouldn’t be room in the boat for three 
of us and Italo,” said Anna, smiling, “so I’ll come 
another day.” 

Yet the refusal cost her something. She pictured 
the little scene—Italo taking the boat out far into 
the Bay, then the plunge into that cool crystal sea, 
the shouted greetings, the tossed silver spray. She 
was a practiced swimmer, far more practiced and 
accomplished than Gay, who was, however, the more 
intrepid and venturesome of the two girls. 

Later from the loggia she could see the blue- 
painted boat rocking idly in the Bay, and two half- 
visible dark bubbles moving upon the crystal and 
sapphire surface. 


4 


Anna was lying in bed. As she lay there, slightly 
propped up on the pillows, she could see the Bay 
like a great, clear mirror melting into a pale, colorless 
sky. San Gervasio thrust a gray arm into the sea. 
It was not yet five o’clock, and she had a whole 


206 


ANNA NUGENT 


hour to wait before getting up. But she liked to 
watch the progress of the dawn, touching this won¬ 
derful world of sea and sky with its cold pure fingers, 
bringing out a detail here, revealing something unex¬ 
pected there, emphasizing suddenly some familiar 
landmark, awakening the earth gradually, kindly, 
almost reluctantly. . . . 

As yet there was little or no color in the scene. 
All was faintly washed in tones of pearl and silver 
and frailest shell-pink, while the shadows were fash¬ 
ioned of softest gray velvet. 

Anna liked it best then in its cool, virginal, early 
morning beauty, when the mountain air was pouring 
down in fresh currents from the heights, and the 
sun had not yet risen to paint everything in fiery 
tones of blue and gold. 

Far out to sea, a sail white as snow emerged from 
the mists. A steamer bound for Genoa sent a blur 
of smoke that smudged the pallor of the sky, as if 
someone had drawn a gray plume across it. A man 
rowed out from the port in a brightly-painted boat. 
Anna could see the flash of his green oars, making 
an emphatic note of color. She heard him shout to 
a comrade on the quay. Then all was silence again, 
except for the almost stealthy lisp of the sea as it 
washed against the rocks and steps beneath her 
window. 

Now a streak of sharp white light cut across the 
sea like a path. There was a faint tinge of turquoise 
in the sky, and in the east appeared a broad glow 
of pink that spread slowly over sky and sea. The 
mountains turned from gray to violet. She 
could hear the birds twittering sleepily in the ilex- 
trees. The salt freshness of the sea flowed into her 
room on the wings of a faint, caressing wind. It 
seemed to purify everything with its cold, cleansing 
touch. She lifted her face, bending forward a little 


A CONVERSION 


20 7 


so that she might feel the flow of it. It was delicious 
to lie like this and watch the slow transformation 
of the world, as if some invisible artist hand were 
coloring it generously and yet so delicately. . . . 

Michael had been a whole week at Sant’ Elena. 
Every morning after his swim he went down to the 
little town and sought out the English priest who 
was staying in one of the hotels. He was ill and 
could not leave his room. Already, after a few days, 
he and Michael were fast friends. 

“I’m a dying man,” he said to Michael just as he 
was about to go away after their first interview, 
“but I thank Almighty God because He has sent one 
more soul to me before I go.” 

Michael was deeply touched. The frail figure 
lying on the couch was emaciated beyond belief; the 
strange visionary blue eyes gazed forth from the 
hollowest of sockets. He had the sweetest smile, 
Michael thought, that he had ever seen. 

There was nothing to be done. The man was 
under sentence of death, and he was perfectly 
happy. Death was the reward he looked forward 
to after a long lifetime spent in the pursuit and 
capture of souls. But he had seldom known any 
young man who interested him as much as Michael 
Nugent. He was so convinced, so humble, so ready 
and eager to obey. * 

“I’m afraid I’m a most awful fraud, said 
Michael, smiling, “I shan’t forfeit anything by be- 
coming a Catholic. It doesn’t seem fair that it should 
be all gain. Even the confessional has ceased to be 
a stumbling-block!” j} 

“Perhaps you’ll be called upon to pay, later, said 
Father Denham, with a smile. “I’m sure, though, 
that you’ll pay generously.” 

“I shall try to,” said Michael. 


208 


ANNA NUGENT 


His father had offered no objection to his remain¬ 
ing for a few weeks longer at Sant’ Elena. He 
did not know what was pending, but in any case, 
Michael feared no opposition from that quarter. 
Athelstan Nugent was the most tolerant of men. 
His mother would put the matter on one side as 
something disagreeable, about which it was best not 
to think at all. May had become very High Church 
since her marriage with Chingford, and would prob¬ 
ably murmur sarcastic remarks about the Italian 
Mission, and the degeneration of character that was 
always noticeable in converts. . . . He felt he 
wouldn’t mind those pin-pricks at all. But he thought 
it hateful that the unfaithfulness of some remote 
ancestor should have forced the step upon him. He 
had been cheated of all his rights, of his spiritual 
inheritance. When he looked at the little Italian 
children going up to the altar rail to receive their 
Divine Lord when they were still so small that they 
had to stand instead of kneel, he envied them, and 
thought with sadness of the millions of English chil¬ 
dren who had been robbed of their spiritual heritage. 

And yet the struggle was worth while. Perhaps 
his faith would always mean more to him because 
he had earned it with sorrow as well as with joy; 
because it had not come too easily, but had meant a 
prolonged spiritual struggle. It was like winning 
name and fame by sheer hard work and effort, instead 
of inheriting one’s wealth and place in the world. 

His leisure was spent more with Gay than with 
Anna. Yet it was Anna who had his confidence; he 
did not tell Gay what was occupying him during 
the long hours of the morning. But it was Gay who 
captured him, who bore him off to bathe and boat, 
to climb and sight-see. He often accompanied her 
out of sheer good-nature, feeling still that he couldn’t 
do enough for her, But always the best moment of 


A CONVERSION 209 

all was when he drew near to the Villa Caterina 
and knew that Anna would be waiting for him on 
the terrace, a cool tranquil figure. . . . 

He wasn’t nearly so much afraid of the future 
now. He felt quite certain that it would hold Anna. 
Perhaps the day was not so very far distant when 
he would speak to her. But he had a strong inward 
conviction that this other matter must be accom¬ 
plished first. Nothing must be allowed to divert his 
thoughts from that. Since the call had come to him 
so definitely so emphatically, at Sant’ Elena, he felt 
that at Sant Elena it must also be answered. 

When she looked out at the dawn spreading its 
silver radiance over land and sea and sky, Anna 
was thinking of Michael. He was emerging like the 
mists. 

“He’ll be almost too perfect,” she thought. 


Darling Michael: 

You can’t really mean it. I do hope it is not too 
late for me to write and urge you not to take this 
suicidal step. You know what one always feels about 
converts—that they are weak and easily swayed. I 
never felt there was any fear of your being influenced 
in this way, and that’s why I always let you take 
Anna to church. I wasn’t even really very much fright¬ 
ened when I found a whole lot of Roman books in 
your room just before it was re-papered. May is un¬ 
speakably shocked. You know what old Lord Wendle 
feels about these things—he is so very High Church 
--he goes all lengths, I am told, except that he doesn’t 
believe in the Pope. I never thought that any of my 
children would believe in the Pope. And you were 
never at all pious even when you were little, Michael ; 
I often had quite a business to get you to say your 
prayers. So I felt you were not in the least likely to 


210 


ANNA NUGENT 


be attracted. I do advise you to give up the idea. I m 
sure you will hate all the restrictions. I am told it 
interferes with everything. 

Your loving Mother, 

Juliet Nugent 


Dear Michael: 

This is a matter for you to decide, and I m sure it 
you’ve made up your mind about it, nothing can stop 
you. You were always a little bit like poor old Temple, 
so I’m not really surprised you should travel along the 
same road, and I hope you’ll find all the happiness in 
it that he did. I suppose everyone who thinks about 
these things at all looks Romeward at least once in 
his or her life. I hardly ever take up a modern auto¬ 
biography that doesn’t explain why the author did or 
did not become a Catholic. I thought of it myself years 
ago, when dear old Temple went over. But I hadn t 
time to learn about it. I expect that is the way with 
a good many of us. . . . 

The Wendies have been opening their mouths pretty 
wide about the settlements, and I suppose I shall have 
to give in, though I haven’t done so yet. Rodney seems 
set on his Stella, and your mother won’t hear of any 
opposition. Well, no more. God bless you. 

Your loving, 

Dad 

Michael had been prepared for his mother’s letter, 
but not for his father’s. There was something wist¬ 
ful about Athelstan’s sympathy, as if he envied his 
son for doing what he had never had the time or 
courage to do himself. Michael read the letter 
several times. The question of Rodney’s settlements 
seemed to be worrying him a bit. But surely he 
was never going to give in to the point of hurting 
himself? This thought alarmed Michael, and made 
him wish for the first time to be back in London, 
assisting his father in the matter. It was all very 


A CONVERSION 


211 

well for his mother to urge him to acquiesce, but she 
knew nothing of his financial affairs. If she asked 
for money he always gave it to her generously with¬ 
out making a fuss. Michael didn’t know much about 
the internal affairs of the firm as yet; he had been 
a partner too short a time to grasp them fully. But 
he did know that the preceding year had been a 
bad one, and that since Patton’s death things had 
never seemed quite so flourishing. There had been 
one or two big failures in the city, and financial 
matters in these modern days were so delicately 
organized, so finely adjusted, that the failure of one 
was bound to react upon many others. It had been 
so with Nugent and Co. 

Athelstan was always cheerily optimistic, and this 
was the first time he had ever sounded even a vague 
note of alarm. It struck Michael as significant, and 
he resolved to go home immediately after his recep¬ 
tion into the Church. 

This ceremony took place about a month later, 
very early one morning in the Cathedral. Afterward 
he and Anna knelt side by side to receive Holy 
Communion. It was a strange, mystical hour for 
them both. 

Gay knew nothing of what was impending. 
Michael wished for no other confidants except Anna 
and Father Denham. 

As they walked home afterward, he turned to 
Anna. 

“Isn’t it strange how different one feels? . . 

A new birth, . . . and beyond, a new heaven and 
a new earth. . . . Even if he never again savored 
that first mystical rapture, he knew that always life 
would seem a little different, that always he would 
go softly because of the things that had happened 
to him that day. . . . 


CHAPTER XI 

ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 
I 

M ICHAEL was still at the Villa Caterina. His 
father had written urging him to take a 
longer holiday as he was enjoying himself so much 
in Italy. 

July w r as nearing its end, and a spell of intense 
heat had set in. The walks and climbs with Gay 
had been discontinued, and the three spent long hours 
bathing in the sea. Harmony had been completely 
restored. Because Anna had been so close to 
Michael when he had made his abjuration, she felt 
that she could afford to let Gay enjoy his company 
on less serious occasions. 

Often they motored in the evening to some town 
that was not too far distant, seeing the long undu¬ 
lating line of that beautiful coast, the views over 
mountain and bay. 

Michael and Gay were sitting in the loggia late 
one afternoon when Countess Selvi was announced. 

“Oh, isn’t Anna here?” she said, in a disappointed 
tone. 

“She’ll be back quite soon,” said Gay, coolly. 
They had hardly seen the Selvis of late, and Anna 
had purposely avoided going there. She hoped that 
Benny would accept this as a tacit refusal, and say 
no more to her about marriage. 

“I hear you are going back to England shortly, 
Mr. Nugent?” said the countess. 

212 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 213 

“Well, I’m thinking of going next week,” said 
Michael. 

They sat there for a few minutes in silence, while 
the countess fanned herself vigorously with a little 
paper fan. 

“I have been so wanting to have a talk with you, 
Mr. Nugent,” she said at last. “I feel that you 
represent dear Anna’s guardians. And the child is 
still too young to make important decisions without 
advice.” 

“Oh, but if Anna wants my advice, I’m sure she’ll 
ask me for it,” said Michael, leaning back in his 
chair and looking at her with bright amused eyes. 
He did not dare look at Gay for he felt that her 
prophecy was actually coming true. 

Gay was determined not to go away. She enjoyed 
the feeling that her presence was making it difficult 
for the countess to speak. She turned her head and 
looked seaward, and hoped that Anna would not 
return too soon. 

“I don’t know whether Anna has told you that 
my son is most anxious to marry her,” continued 
the countess, fanning herself with increased energy. 
“In Italy, as perhaps you know, the actual proposals 
are not left, as with you, to the young people them¬ 
selves. It’s more prudent for that part to be under¬ 
taken by the parents or guardians—it saves trouble.” 

Michael’s face was grave and stem now and wholly 
non-committal. He, too, began to wish that Gay 
would go away. But she sat there, her eyes shining, 
her face flushed. 

“I’m sure Miss Lawton must have seen how things 
were going,” said the countess, perceiving with some 
irritation that Michael was determined to give her 
no help. He ought to have been glad to think that 
his little cousin had the opportunity of making such 
a good marriage! . . . 


2I4 ANNA NUGENT 

“But of course I’ve seen,” said Gay. And I 
think it would be the best thing m the world tor 
Anna. In fact I’ve been longing for it. , 

While the countess had no belief at all in Oay s 
sincerity, she was grateful for the help thus proffered 
from so unexpected a quarter. 

“Well, I’m sure if you say so, Miss Lawton— 
for you are the one who would lose most by dear 
Anna’s marriage-” 

“I should never think of myself when it is a 
question of Anna’s happiness,” said Gay, in a low 

husky tone. . t c , 

Michael glanced at her in astonishment, J>ne 
actually seemed in favor of this preposterous idea. 
He said sternly: 

“And you think this would be for her happiness. 

Gay returned his look quite squarely. ? 

“I’m positive that it would. You see they ve 
known each other since they were children. They re 
of the same religion—almost of the same age. ? 

“And you think that Anna cares for my son, don t 
you?” said the countess. 

“I’m quite sure she does.” 

“You ought to know, Miss Lawton. buch an 
intimate friend. ... We were always afraid that 
you might disapprove and perhaps try to prevent it. 

“You misjudge me utterly,” said Gay. Her tone 
was lofty and not free from rebuke. 

Michael listened as one in a bad dream. Of 
course he could go—he would go straight to Anna, 
as soon as she came in, and entreat her to be his wife. 
She was his—only his. They were making a hideous, 
gigantic mistake. ... 

“I felt that Mr. Nugent would be able to tell 
me if there was likely to be any opposition from 
Anna’s guardians.” Countess Selvi turned to 
Michael. He had not said so in so many words, but 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


215 


she had a strong inward conviction that the scheme 
did not meet with his approval. 

“I am sure my parents would wish me to say that 
in this matter Anna is perfectly free.” 

Michael’s voice did not seem to belong to him; 
it was so stern and composed. He looked at these 
two women in dismay. They were Anna’s most inti¬ 
mate friends, and could he therefore presume that 
they were wholly unaware of what was necessary for 
her happiness? 

“I’ve been a fool,” he thought; “I ought to have 
put a stop to all this ages ago.” The thought of 
Anna’s marrying Benny was absurd. 

“I could at least ascertain her feelings on the 
subject,” he added. 

“Oh, she’d hardly be likely to tell you. She’s 
very reserved,” said Gay. “But I think I could do 
it for you, if you liked.” 

“I’m so glad to think that you are in favor of 
it, Miss Lawton,” said the countess, wondering why 
she had always so misjudged and mistrusted Gay. 

“Of course I am. And when Mr. Nugent thinks 
it over he’ll come to the same conclusion,” said Gay. 

She smiled at Michael, pretending not to notice 
his dismayed, astonished silence. 

They were like two weavers of destiny, he thought, 
busily tying knots. . . . Why couldn’t they leave 
Anna alone? What business was it of theirs? All 
the time he felt as if they were hypnotizing him 
into acquiescence, trying to make him believe also, 
that Anna cared for Benny. Gay, too—he hadn’t 
anticipated this emphatic support from Gay. It made 
him feel as if she must possess some secret knowl¬ 
edge of Anna’s own feelings on the subject. 

“Anna must not be persuaded into anything against 
her will,” he said. 

“But this isn’t against her will,” said Gay, with 


2 l6 


ANNA NUGENT 


a frank, disarming smile, “Fve every reason to be¬ 
lieve that she’s extremely attached to Count Selvi. 
I’ve had so many opportunities of watching them 
together.” # . 

“Does Anna know anything of this?” inquired 
Michael, turning almost fiercely to the countess. 

He was beginning to feel that they were hiding 
something from him. He did not blame the countess; 
she was so obviously playing for her son’s happiness. 
But deep down in his heart, a slow hot anger against 
Gay was simmering. 

“Oh, yes, I spoke to her myself some weeks ago. 

“What did she say?” 

“She said very properly that she wasn’t thinking 
of marriage. I am sure it was a great surprise to 
her. I begged her not to give a decided answer at 
once, but to wait and examine her own heart. Anna 
has been much occupied with your visit, I know— 
perhaps she has had time to think it over.” 

“She didn’t refuse to consider it?” he asked, im¬ 
mensely puzzled and perturbed. 

“I wouldn’t let her. I begged her to pray—to 
ask her director—a priest would be sure to see the 
advantages of such a marriage for her from a spirit¬ 
ual point of view. I asked her if there was anyone 
else, but she assured me that there wasn’t.” 

Gay struck in lightly: “Of course there isn’t. 
Anna knows no one.” 

Yes, it was Gay’s attitude that puzzled him. He 
had often heard her speak of the Selvis with ridi¬ 
cule, and now she was suddenly displaying an ap¬ 
parent eagerness for the marriage. 

“You mustn’t try to persuade Anna to marry your 
son unless she cares for him,” said Michael, sternly. 
“She is only nineteen—the experiment would be 
highly dangerous.” 

“Not with Anna,” said Gay. “Though she’s so 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


217 

young, she knows her own mind. And then as 
Countess Selvi says, her director-” 

“I don’t believe any priest would urge a girl to 
marry against her will!” he said warmly. 

“Of course he wouldn’t—that would be a terrible 
thing to do,” said the countess. “But what I’m 
trying to show you, Mr. Nugent, is that this wouldn’t 
be against Anna’s will. She has always liked my 
son. She’s devoted to us both. Only sometimes a 
girl hesitates—there’s so much at stake—and then 
a little wise and prudent advice is very helpful.” 

“I shall never be able to fight this,” thought 
Michael, dolefully. 

He began to see how unnecessary and quixotic 
his own decision to “leave Anna alone” for a year 
or two had been. That first year of complete inde¬ 
pendence. in the world was bound to be a very crucial 
one in the life of so young and untried a girl. He 
saw how insanely he had relied upon their old inti¬ 
macy and friendship, how secure he had felt in his 
very insecurity. 

They couldn’t guess—and he was glad of it—that 
he was as capable of safeguarding Anna’s faith as 
any other Catholic man. He would have been just 
as scrupulous even if he hadn’t become a Catholic, 
knowing as he did how intimately her religion was 
bound up in all her actions, the important part it 
played in her life, and how she was subjected to its 
daily and constant influence. It gave her that stability 
which made her character so formed, despite her 
youth. A man who won such a woman would know 
that she was his forever, even beyond the paltry 
separation of death. 

“You must leave her to me, dear Countess Selvi,” 
said Gay, “and I think I can promise you that it’ll 
be quite all right. I’m as deeply concerned for dear 
xAnna’s happiness as you are. But there was bound 



2 l8 


ANNA NUGENT 


to be a little doubt and hesitation at first, because 
Anna is Anna. She doesn’t snatch at things impul¬ 
sively as I do—she likes to take them up and examine 
them and meditate upon them.” 

She spoke as if with calm knowledge of Anna s 
hidden nature. And yet, if Gay Lawton didn’t know 
the truth about her, who did? Gay was apparently 
absolutely assured on the subject; she loved Anna, 
and she wanted to see her happily married—to 
Benedetto Selvi. ... _ 

On the face of it, too, she was the one who had 
most to lose by such an event. Benny, less than 
most husbands, would be likely to tolerate the pres¬ 
ence in his house of an unsympathetic female friend 
to whom, too, he had once committed the unspeak¬ 
able folly of making love. 

Now that he knew Gay better, he disliked her 
very much, partly because of the easy conquest she 
had made of him, and partly because her careless, 
indifferent attitude towards religion dismayed him. 
He wanted, as his mother knew, to rescue Anna 
from Gay, to separate them utterly, because he 
feared her influence. 

“And I’m sure, Mr. Nugent, that you, too, will 
do your part in helping dear Anna to come to a wise 
conclusion,” said Countess Selvi, suavely. 

“I shall not interfere!” exclaimed Michael, almost 
with violence. “I refuse to advise her one way or 
the other. If she wishes to marry your son, she is 
perfectly free to do so!” 

His violet eyes flashed. Something of his iron 
self-control had left him. Watching him with an 
interested curiosity Gay thought: “He doesn’t like 
the idea—I wonder why!” 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


219 


2 

Anna came into the loggia. She was wearing a 
simple gray muslin dress, and in this garment she 
looked very slender and young and girlish. A wide 
gray straw hat hid her hair and shadowed her face. 
She was pale on account of the heat, but her face 
wore a calm, contented expression. How uncon¬ 
scious she looked, and unmindful, Michael thought, 
of love and its feverish restlessness. The smile she 
gave him was full of an almost child-like confidence. 
She went up to Countess Selvi and kissed her. 

“We haven’t seen you for ages! How are you? 
And how’s Benny?” 

“Benny is away—he has gone to Genoa for a few 
days. On business,” added the countess. 

Michael and Gay withdrew, leaving the countess 
and Anna alone. They both felt she would wish 
to talk to her privately upon this important matter. 
They went out into the garden together, and as they 
were strolling down the ilex-walk Michael said sud¬ 
denly : 

“We mustn’t let her persuade Anna into marrying 
Selvi.” . ^ J 

Gay glanced at him in surprise. She wondered a 
little why he should have such a strong objection to 
the proposed marriage. He had seen Benedetto and 
had apparently liked him. 

“Oh, you mustn’t think she’d ever do that. Coun¬ 
tess Selvi is far too good and conscientious. But 
she’s seen, I expect, as I have, Anna’s strong regard 
and affection for her son.” 

Her tone of calm conviction—so assured, that it 
was almost careless—pierced Michael to the heart. 

“And surely there’s be no opposition from your 
parents? A man who’s quite well off—and one she’s 


220 


ANNA NUGENT 


known all her life! Your mother is anti most things, 
but I should think even she would welcome such a 
comfortable solution of Anna’s problem.” 

“But there’s no problem!” he exclaimed, warmly, 
“and my parents have no control over Anna now. 
She is perfectly happy here. Why should she marry ? 
She ought to wait a year—several years—and then 
choose prudently and wisely.” 

“But if she chooses Benny that will be very wise 
and prudent,” said Gay. 

His face wore its inscrutable look as of an iron 
mask. 

“But she doesn’t care—I’m certain of it! Why 
should that garrulous old woman try to persuade 
her that she does?” Even as he uttered the words 
he was conscious of being in a sense unjust to Coun¬ 
tess Selvi. “Do leave Anna alone, Gay!” 

“Oh, I’m not going to interfere! You needn’t 
be afraid. . . .” She was a little piqued at his 
authoritative tone that held, too, something of re¬ 
proach. 

Was he going to make this business of Anna’s 
his own? She thought there was something ambigu¬ 
ous now in Michael’s attitude—something that 
seemed singularly at variance with his whole de¬ 
meanor since his arrival at the Villa Caterina. He 
might almost have been a little in love with Anna 
himself! She had often wondered about that until 
his arrival, but when he came she could see only 
that kindly elder-brotherly pose beneath which Anna 
had sometimes shown a certain restiveness. Anna 
was more difficult to read. She had let Gay take 
Michael off whithersoever she would, almost from 
the first day. She had raised no difficulties, made 
no protests. She had almost thrown them into each 
ether’s company. That argued at least a certain 
indifference. 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


221 


But supposing all the time Michael had been se¬ 
cretly in love with Anna? Would he not perhaps 
be all the more likely to turn to her—Gay—for 
sympathy in the hour of defeat? Gay dwelt on this 
thought; it pleased and flattered her. She thought 
him adorable in this mood, it was so seldom one 
saw him stirred. He wasn’t like Rodney in this 
respect. One could always read Rodney like a book. 

“But it isn’t as if you wished to marry her your¬ 
self!” she said, in a bright, challenging tone. 

Michael did not answer, and his blue eyes as they 
rested upon her for a second held something of 
hostility. 

“Your mother would certainly be anti that. You’ve 
seen, perhaps, how she regards the idea of a mixed 
marriage. Anna isn’t diplomatic about her religion 
either—she wouldn’t be likely to hide it under a 
bushel to please anyone! She’d set it on the house¬ 
top for all the world to see.” 

“No one would expect Anna to hide her faith— 
it’s an integral part of her.” He seemed to seize 
eagerly upon this side-issue, as if thankful to escape 
from Gay’s ironical, insistent questioning. 

It would have been the moment, he felt, to turn 
her attention completely from Anna by announcing 
his own change of faith. 

“Then for goodness’ sake don’t oppose such an 
excellent chance of getting her settled where she’ll 
never have to hide it!” said Gay. “These Italians, 
when they are devout, are more Catholic than the 
Pope himself. Why, I’ve seen them crossing them¬ 
selves when they leave the house or get into a cab! 
That is the atmosphere Anna wants. Not one where 
these things are barely tolerated.” 

“She could have all that without marrying Selvi,” 
said Michael, in a cold, withdrawn tone. 

But she was right in the main, he could acknowl- 


222 


ANNA NUGENT 


edge that with a desolate inward sadness. So right, 
that he felt himself almost persuaded by her deadly 
logic. To separate Anna from her Italian life would 
be almost an act of cruelty, he thought. 

“Out here,” said Gay, “there’s no need for Anna 
to adapt herself to circumstances, and if she marries 
Benny there’s no reason why she ever should. She’d 
never be hors de son assiette as she’d be in England. 
If you look at it from this point of view, you’ll see 
how well suited she and Selvi are to each other.” 

“There are plenty of Catholics in England, if it 
comes to that,” he said warmly. “Why, I’m one 

myself-!” He stopped abruptly. It was the 

nearest he intended to go to the truth. 

Perhaps she would be quick enough to grasp what 
he implicitly inferred, and it intrigued him to watch 
the effect of his little disclosure upon her. Gay was 
really for a second taken aback. She opened her 
mouth with a little gasp of astonishment. Her face 
wore a blank stunned look, almost as if she had 
received an unexpected blow. Michael, a Catholic? 
They had had this secret, then, unknown to herself, 
between them. . . . 

She recovered herself quickly. “Ah, then you 
understand from personal experience what the Faith 
means to Anna!” 

“I can’t think why she should be so very anxious 
for the marriage, unless she knows Anna’s keen about 
it, too,” was his uncomfortable reflection. But per¬ 
haps she did know. He believed that girls often 
made confidences to each other about their love- 
affairs. Probably it was in this way Gay had learnt 
that Anna cared for Benny. ... 

“Of course she may be right, and if so I’m too 
late,” he thought despondently. “I feel somehow that 
between them they’ll persuade Anna.” 

“Do let’s go out in the boat,” said Gay suddenly, 



ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


223 


“it is such a perfect evening, and Countess Selvi is 
sure to stay with Anna for ages.” 

Michael agreed listlessly. It would help.to kill 
the time until the countess left Anna free to listen to 
all that he had to tell her. But perhaps it was too 
late—perhaps she wouldn’t want to hear it now. . . . 


3 

Countess Selvi took Anna’s hand and looked at 
her with a wise, subtle smile. She was glad to have 
this interview with her quite alone. The tacit oppo¬ 
sition of that London cousin had disturbed her 
vaguely, but then on the other hand she had been 
agreeably surprised at Gay’s unexpected support. 
Help would therefore be undoubtedly forthcoming 
from Miss Lawton, although Mr. Nugent had abso¬ 
lutely refused to interfere. But then men, she re¬ 
flected, were as a rule quite destitute of match-making 
instincts. And this man obviously held those strange 
English ideas about the arranging of marriages, 
together with a horror of anything that seemed at 
all like coercion. He didn’t seem to recognize the 
undoubted rights of parents and guardians to step 
in and help, with their superior wisdom and prudence 
and experience, to shape a girl’s destiny. And how 
was a totally inexperienced girl of nineteen to judge 
what would best promote her own happiness? She 
had been quick to see, however, that Michael’s oppo¬ 
sition had scarcely had anything to do with the per¬ 
sonality of her son. He didn’t take that into con¬ 
sideration at all, but he objected to the whole thing 
on principle as a subtle infringement of personal 
rights. 

“Darling child, I’ve been having a little talk with 
your cousin about you!” 


ANNA NUGENT 


224 

The countess's voice was suave and gentle and 
affectionate, yet her words struck chill to Anna’s 
heart. She withdrew her hand abruptly, and made 
a little shrinking movement. 

‘‘About me?” she said, with a feeling of terror 
she could not subdue. “Why—what can you have 
to say to Michael about me?” 

During the last few weeks she had seen practically 
nothing of the countess and her son, and their con¬ 
tinued silence and absence had lulled her into a kind of 
security, and made her believe that either they had 
accepted her first decision as final, or that they were 
waiting for her to make the next move. 

In her excitement about Michael’s conversion and 
the great happiness which this event had brought to 
her, she had scarcely bestowed a thought upon these 
other friends. And her love for Michael preoccu¬ 
pied her to such an extent that everyone else seemed 
a little unreal and shadowy, as if they hardly ex¬ 
isted. 

Now a cold fear possessed her that somehow these 
people would contrive to separate her from Michael. 

“He’s the only one of your relations that it’s pos¬ 
sible for me to consult,” said Countess Selvi. “And 
I felt I should like to know how the idea of your 
marrying my son would be received by your guard¬ 
ians.” Her tone was kind but quite firm, as if she 
took a great deal for granted. 

“My marriage has nothing whatever to do with 
them,” said Anna, in a choked, indignant voice. She 
was both angry and horrified to find that the subject 
had been discussed with Michael. Why couldn’t they 
leave her alone? Why was the countess—who had 
always seemed to be her friend—so intent upon 
bringing about this marriage? Had she been trying 
to persuade Michael that already an understanding 
existed between herself and Benny? 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


225 


“My dear, these cousins have been your kind 
guardians for many years—it’s only right they should 
be consulted.” 

Anna was silent. She wondered how Michael had 
received the suggestion, what he had said, how he 
had looked. Whether he had believed this mon¬ 
strous, incredible thing. . . . 

“I was glad,” continued the countess, “to find that 
Miss Lawton was so warmly in favor of the mar¬ 
riage. Considering how much she has to lose by it, 
I could not help thinking her conduct most disin¬ 
terested! She seemed quite eager—quite anxious, 
and took such an extraordinarily unselfish view of it, 
as if she was convinced that it would be for your 
happiness.” 

The maze had thickened about her. Anna felt as 
if she were one of the actors in a particularly evil 
dream. Surely she would soon awake . . . and find 
herself free from the cruel little tangle. 

“Perhaps they’ve persuaded Michael that I wish 
for it,” she thought, dismayed. “It’s because of 
him that Gay wants it to happen.” 

It was hideous to harbor these disloyal and mis¬ 
trustful thoughts of Gay, but what other motive 
could she have? 

She felt it was impossible to tell the countess 
clearly and decisively that she didn’t care for Benny 
except as a dear friend. Countess Selvi adored her 
son, and the information must be conveyed quietly 
and tactfully, preferably too by letter. 

“I do wish you hadn’t spoken of it to Michael,” 
she managed to say at last. “It was quite unnecessary 
to—to consult him at all.” 

“I don’t think he was really averse to the idea,” 
said the countess, who was determined to take a 
hopeful view of Michael’s attitude. “He was only 
opposed to any persuasion ... he wished you of 


22 6 ANNA NUGENT 


course to be quite free. But then he isn’t accustomed 
to our system of arranging marriages. . . .. . 

“He wasn’t against it?” she asked pitifully. A 
desolation that was like a great cold sea of pain 
possessed her. Not against it? Not averse to it? 
She clenched her hands to endure the anguish. 

“I find him charming,” said the countess, evading 
the question. “So frank—so straightforward—so 
truly Tohn-Bullish in his convictions.” 

Charming? . . . Anna could not have said it 
Michael were charming or not. She only knew that 
she loved him, and that her dream of being beloved 
by him in return was destined never to be fulfilled. 
He had said no word against the marriage. He had 
only wished her to be free—perfectly free. 

“Now I’ve every hope, my dear child, that when 
you come to think it over you 11 make us all very 
happy indeed. Talk it over with Mr. Nugent and 
Miss Lawton. 1 ’ She laid her hand on Anna s, but 
the girl drew it sharply away. 

“No—no—I shall never change, she said. I 
like Benny as a friend. You and he are the two 
oldest friends I have in the world. But I can t marry 


The countess smiled, a little superior, unconvinced 
smile. When it came to the point, many girls drew 
back in alarm from what seemed like a surrender of 
liberty. The time had gone by when a woman 
through matrimony alone could attain to a measure 
of liberty. The freedom that girls enjoyed in these 
days was, in the countess’s opinion, disastrous. 

“You are very young, Anna, and you mustn’t be 
allowed to make a mistake that would affect your 
whole life. But as I say, don’t do anything in a 
hurry. Consult Mr. Nugent and Miss Lawton, who 
both have your welfare so much at heart.” 

Anna stood there, staring seawards with tears 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


227 

in her eyes. This reiterance of Gay’s name produced 
a profoundly sinister impression upon her. 

“No—no—it’s no good My mind’s made 
up. . . .” 

The countess rose to take her departure. There 
was something both haughty and reproachful in her 
manner, as she bade Anna good-bye. She made her 
feel rather like an obstinately naughty and impenitent 
child. 

But at least she had struck a blow in her own de¬ 
fense—they shouldn’t have it all their own way. . . . 


4 

Anna went up to her room. She felt an urgent need 
of solitude. Even her final effort to convince the 
countess that she would never consent to the mar¬ 
riage had failed to remove from her own mind the 
disagreeable effect bequeathed by that scene in the 
loggia—the almost sinister impression of suggestion, 
of coercion, of the slow, difficult, but ultimately sure 
pressure that one mind can exercise upon another. 

Her brain was in a whirl. Thoughts she could not 
banish or control invaded it. Michael knew of this 
hateful proposal. The countess had made a bold bid 
for his support, and apparently his sole concern had 
been that she, Anna, should be left perfectly free to 
decide what was necessary for her happiness. Free 
—the word had no meaning, since freedom could 
never bring Michael a step nearer to her. A sob 
broke from her. Worse than all was this dreadful 
disruption of her own dream cherished, as she now 
knew, ever since that wild and beautiful spring eve¬ 
ning a few days before her departure from London 
when Michael had come up to the schoolroom to 
talk to her. Its faint reflex illumination had gilded 


228 ANNA NUGENT 

for her even these calm and tranquil months at Sant’ 
Elena. 

Yes, up till the very eve of his actual arrival, 
she had always felt that she was waiting for Michael, 
preparing for his coming. It had often helped her 
to endure and surmount the little wounds and pin¬ 
pricks imparted by Gay’s moody and frequently sul¬ 
len companionship. These things had not really 
touched her at all; she had felt too sorry for Gay 
to bear her any ill-will. And her own secret, won¬ 
derful happiness had bestowed a kind of armor upon 
her, while making her all the more gentle and sympa¬ 
thetic to those who did not possess this immense 
source of joy. . . . 

A light pierced the obscurity of the situation. 
Countess Selvi had said that Gay was the one who 
had most to lose by Anna’s marriage. But wasn’t 
it much more probable that she had in reality most 
to gain? If it was true, as Countess Selvi had seemed 
to suggest, that Gay and Michael had both been in 
favor of the marriage, wasn’t it because since his 
coming to the Villa Caterina Gay had succeeded in 
her subtle little maneuvres and had effectually 
turned his thoughts passionately towards herself? 
She had played upon his pity; she had contrived, 
whether by his suggestion or not it was difficult to 
say, to absorb a great deal of his time. And no 
doubt she had been clever and shrewd enough to 
discern that Anna was the one obstacle in the way 
of her success. But Anna married to Selvi would 
be securely established, would be placed permanently 
out of Michael’s way. 

“Michael. . . Anna said aloud, almost entreat- 

ingly. 

Suddenly as if in ironical answer to this pitiful 
appeal, a boat came in sight, just beyond the point 
of the little promontory upon which the villa was 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


229 


situated. Gay, hatless and bare-armed, was rowing. 
Michael sat there, idly steering. The sea was calm 
and glassy as a mirror. Anna could see their re¬ 
flections in the water, and the sharp blue shadow 
flung by the boat. She could hear too the sound of 
Gay’s laughter. . . . 

“Of course that’s it,” she said desolately. 

Michael must have comforted Gay for his 
brother’s faithlessness to such good purpose that she 
had easily been able to transfer her somewhat facile 
affections from Rodney to himself. The shadowy 
ideal of Rodney, blurred and attenuated by three 
years of separation and uncertainty, had been thrust 
into the background by the sensible, objective pres¬ 
ence of Michael. There were points of physical 
resemblance between the two brothers, a certain 
similarity of voice and manner, so that if they were 
both in the room and you shut your eyes you would 
hardly know which of them was speaking. Rodney 
was taller, slimmer, more conventionally handsome 
than his brother, but he had not Michael’s look of 
invincible strength, a quality that with him was not 
only physical but penetrated deeply into his very 
mentality. Anna knew that fundamentally they 
couldn’t be compared, that Michael’s character had 
a grace and beauty, an integrity of its own, a stern¬ 
ness, an austerity, a deep conscientiousness, of which 
the careless, pleasure-loving Rodney was utterly 
destitute. 

Anna did not believe that Gay loved Michael. 
She wanted to conquer and win him and marry him 
from mixed motives of pique, ambition, and a rest¬ 
less quest for experience. It was a thing at once 
complex and to Anna utterly unintelligible. 

The boat drifted nearer. Anna still sat there, 
trying to persuade herself that she need not fear 
Gay’s scheming. When she next saw Michael alone 


230 


ANNA NUGENT 


he would surely say something to dispel all her fears. 
And then hope dwindled a little; it had received 
such sharp and wounding blows that day. She knew 
too well the force of Gay’s power to sway and stir 
all those with whom she came into contact. Released 
against her will from her engagement to Rodney, 
she had embarked with undiminished zest upon this 
new adventure which, while less thrilling in what it 
offered, promised a far greater degree of solidity 
and stability, and from a worldly point of view was 
not less desirable. 

She saw the boat rounding the point, coming 
straight toward the wooden landing-stage at the bot¬ 
tom of the cliff steps. Echoes of voices and laughter 
reached Anna’s ears across the water, full of the 
strange almost unreal beauty of sounds that are thus 
borne. When they came nearer, she could see 
Michael’s face, brown and smiling, his head bending 
a little forward. Gay’s back was turned to her, she 
was rowing with her easy accustomed strokes. The 
movements of her slim strong bare arms were rhyth¬ 
mic and full of the poetry of effortless motion. Little 
flashes of silver spray splashed from the oars like 
scintillating jewels. Yes, they were happy together, 
happy and absorbed. They wanted her—Anna- 
out of the way. Perhaps even no w they were dis¬ 
cussing the probabilities of this marriage with Selvi, 
and wondering how soon it would take place. 

The boat disappeared behind the grove of ilex 
and pine-trees. Now they must have landed, must 
be coming up the steps. . . . Presently Anna could 
see them standing side by side on the terrace, looking 
out upon all the incomparable beauty of the scene, 
the silver-pale sea, the lovely pansy-colored moun¬ 
tains, the little coast-towns gleaming like ivory and 
touched with faint rose-colored shadows, the lustrous 
framing boughs of the pines. It was just beginning 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


231 


to be stained with all the wonderful hues of sunset, 
not bright to-night or flaming, but delicate pastel 
tints, rose, lemon, a faint mauve, an indefinite green, 
little patches of turquoise floating on sky and 
water. . . . 

Anna drew back into her room, as if unable to 
endure the sight of those two figures leaning over 
the balustrade, side by side, so close too, that in the 
distance their arms seemed to be touching. . . . 


CHAPTER XII 

THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 

1 

I T was not long before Anna heard a brisk de¬ 
cisive tap upon her door, and in reply to her 
preoccupied “Come in” Gay turned the handle and 
entered the room. 

Her face was still glowing and flushed from the 
combined effects of exercise, and recent exposure to 
the slanting sun rays. Her white scanty dress hung 
loosely on her upright boyish form, the skirt, short 
nearly to the knees, displaying white shoes and stock¬ 
ings. Her dark hair was as usual very tidy and 
closely dressed; it was of the heavy kind that even 
sea-air cannot disturb. Her eyes were shining with a 
subdued triumph. 

“I say, old thing, I’m dying to hear what the 
countess said to you about marrying Benny. We’ve 
been speculating about it—Michael and I. He’s so 
astonished to think she could imagine his people had 
any right to oppose it or interfere. I’m sure though 
he’s as keen on it as I am.” 

She stopped short, for Anna’s expression changed, 
and her pale immobile face looked almost as if some 
inward fierce emotion had flowed suddenly over, it. 
Something that was both anger and grief, indignation 
and fear. .... 

“She had no right whatever to discuss the affair 
with Michael. I told her when she first spoke to 
232 


THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 


233 


me about it that I didn’t want to marry her son. 
So it’s no use your trying to force me into it, Gay!” 

Gay stepped backward as if in instinctive with¬ 
drawal from something one had believed to be cold 
and inanimate and which had suddenly revealed fiery 
and almost menacing qualities. Anna had her full 
share of Nugent reserve and self-control, and always 
it was difficult to arouse her. The transformation 
was therefore almost terrifying, and for a moment 
Gay was actually frightened at what she had done. 

Did Anna suspect that she playing for her own 
hand? Success hung in the balance, for a new light 
seemed to have been thrown upon the situation by 
the sudden disclosure that Michael had become a 
Catholic. But Gay did not believe that his con¬ 
version had had much to do with Anna, for if so, he 
would perhaps have waited until their engagement 
was actually accomplished before taking any definite 
step. Besides, he was not a man who would become 
a Catholic for any other reason but that he had 
coldly and formally accepted the authority and teach¬ 
ing of the Church. Nevertheless the news had dis¬ 
quieted her, because it forced her to realize that all 
this time a secret, to which she had not been admitted, 
had existed between Michael and Anna. 

“What do you mean by saying force you into it?” 
demanded Gay, recovering her speech, and slightly 
losing her own temper. “You must be mad, Anna!” 

“Don’t try to deceive me, Gay,” said Anna, in a 
cold voice that contrasted strangely with her fiery 
tones of a moment before. “You have tried to 
make Countess Selvi and Michael believe that I 
wished to marry Benny. And you know I’ve never 
had the slightest intention of doing so. You have 
been pushing the scheme for some purpose of your 
own.” 

Anna stopped short. She felt sick and exhausted 


ANNA NUGENT 


234 

with this unaccustomed anger that had so shaken 
her out of her normal self-control. But it was as if 
an illumination, swift and sudden and piercing like 
a searcidight, had suddenly exposed Gay’s unscrupu¬ 
lous little plot to mold her—Anna’s—destiny accord¬ 
ing to the plan of her own desire. 

Gay gave a short hard laugh that did not ring 
quite true. # UT 

“You little spitfire!” she said contemptuously. I 
only wish I knew what the row was about. You 
sound frightfully jealous, Anna!” 

Her scornful tone stung Anna. “Please leave me 
alone, Gay. I don’t want to discuss it with you, 
and perhaps I was wrong to speak as I did. Only 
I want you to understand it’s no use.” 

“No use ? What on earth do you mean? I simply 
won’t have you flying out at me like that! It’s per¬ 
fectly true that I wish you’d marry Selvi, for then 
I should be free to leave you and go away. I’m 
sick to death of this place. . . . But I shall just tell 
Michael what you’ve said to me, and leave him to 
put his own interpretation upon it, and I’m sure he’ll 
recognize how unjust and suspicious and cruel you 
are. Pushing the scheme for some purpose of my 
own! What purpose could I have except a wish 
for your happiness? I was only afraid—ridiculous 
as it sounds now—that you might refuse Benny out 
of some quixotic consideration for myself. I see 
how mistaken I was. But even so you needn’t have 
flown at me like a wild cat because Selvi wants to 
marry you!” 

She flounced out of the room. When she had 
gone Anna had some difficulty in believing in the 
reality of the little scene. Her own fierce words 
. . . Gay’s scornful repudiation of unworthy mo¬ 
tives . . . her cruel determination to tell Michael. 
She would lay stress upon Anna’s injustice, her un- 


THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 


235 


founded suspicions. She would tell him of hex* resolve 
to go away—of the absolute necessity of her leaving 
the Villa Caterina after what had passed between 
herself and Anna. Perhaps she would touch bitterly 
upon her own homeless position . . . Michael’s pity 
would be aroused. It might indeed be so strongly 
aroused that he would blame Anna for her unjust 
treatment of her friend. 

It seemed to Anna then that she had struck a 
clumsy, inexpert blow in her own defense. It hadn’t 
succeeded, it had only made matters much worse. 
She had been wicked, too, to have such thoughts of 
Gay. Perhaps she had utterly misjudged her, and 
Gay had really believed she was furthering a mar¬ 
riage that would make Anna happy. Perhaps she 
had truly been blind, all the time, to Anna’s own 
feeling for Michael. 

She wrote a little note to Michael. “You must 
excuse my not coming down to dinner to-night. I’m 
not feeling very well, the heat has tired me. Gay 
will look after you.” 

Her inherent pride forced her to give Gay the 
initial advantage. She should be the first to see 
Michael and give him her version of the scene. Gay 
should tell her own story, coloring it as she so well 
knew how. Anna felt that Michael was now defi¬ 
nitely lost to her. He would see her through Gay’s 
eyes, as cruel, suspicious, vindictive, unfaithful to her 
own standards and ideals. If there had ever been 
any sentiment approaching to love in his heart for 
her, it must surely now suffer a revulsion so strong 
that it might perhaps change to actual hate. . . . 

She could do nothing to keep them apart. Gay 
had complete command of the situation. Anna had 
never felt her power so strongly. She was certain, 
too, that she intended to win Michael. And she 
felt that she could not meet him again to-night, after 


ANNA NUGENT 


236 

all that had passed. She ought to have kept silence, 
and when she felt perfectly calm she could have gone 
to Michael and assured him that she had no intention 
of marrying Selvi, that she had long ago told his 
mother so. There really had been no ambiguity in 
that first answer of hers; if she had hesitated at 
all it had been simply from a desire to save the 
countess from any vicarious pain and disappointment. 
And then the weaving of the little plot had begun. 
Even in the midst of her grief, Anna was able to 
exonerate the countess from any ulterior motive in 
her desire to consult Michael on the subject. But 
she could not bring herself to regard Gay s inter¬ 
vention as either innocent or altruistic. It had been 
accomplished with the deadly purpose of separating 
her from Michael, of making him believe that her 
feelings were involved, that she reciprocated Benny’s 
love and wished to marry him. In her pursuit of 
Michael—for it amounted to that—Gay had not 
hesitated to make use of any and every weapon that 
she found lying in her path. And destiny had de¬ 
creed that the weapons should be the very ones most 
suited and adapted to her work. 

Later on, Anna could hear the low sustained mur¬ 
mur of their voices, as they sat out in the loggia 
beneath her window after dinner. She felt then as 
if she had in a sense surrendered Michael to Gay, 
deliberately aiding in the destruction of those dreams 
that had been so long, so dear. ... 

The twilight deepened, duskily blue like the bloom 
of a ripe grape. The pallor of the sea was brushed 
across with a darkening film of gray. The houses 
of the little port of Sant’ Elena, tall, huddled, ir¬ 
regular, lit their fitful lamps that sent long golden 
rivers into the darkening water. The campanile of 
the Cathedral stood tall and pale above the houses, 
as if watching them protectively. In the garden the 



THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 


237 


pines and ilex-trees and cypresses were all massed 
together in one inky-black shadow, submerging their 
shapes and identities in that darkness except for the 
boughs that, advancing from the rest, were delicately 
etched against sea and sky. In straight sharp lines 
of golden lights the coast towns revealed themselves, 
lying at the foot of the mountains close to the sea. 
On one side she could perceive no less than three of 
those towns flickering their friendly signals to her 
across the wide, pale Bay. On the blunt hill of San 
Gervasio the lighthouse suddenly displayed its bril¬ 
liant colorless ray, and then subsided into darkness 
for the space of a few seconds, when the revolving 
lamp was once more visible. The little lighthouse 
that stood at the end of the quay at Sant’ Elena 
flashed out its answer, now ruby, now emerald-col¬ 
ored. Echoes of voices and laughter were borne 
across the water, and all the time there was a soft 
murmured accompaniment, the rhythmic fluid sound 
of tiny waves breaking on the rocks. 

While Anna’s eyes observed all these things with 
mechanical attention, her thoughts were wholly occu¬ 
pied with Michael. If she had wronged Gay in that 
moment of passion when she had been goaded out 
of her normal self-control by the afternoon’s hap¬ 
penings, she had at least sought to make amends by 
yielding to her utterly this evening hour with Michael. 
She could picture them sitting in the loggia, smoking 
cigarettes, talking over the events of the day. 

But Anna felt that she could not meet Michael 
yet. Jealous ? Gay had flung the word at her with 
scorn, as if she had penetrated into Anna’s heart 
and read its carefully-guarded secret. Jealous. . . . 
The word lashed her. But nevertheless she had 
loved and trusted Gay till the veils were torn from 
her eyes. 

She sat there thinking, till one by one the lights 


ANNA NUGENT 


238 

in the other houses were extinguished or concealed 
behind the close secretive wooden shutters. The 
whole world seemed to be wrapped in slumber, except 
herself and a few fishermen whose boats were rock¬ 
ing gently out there in the Bay. 

She dreaded the morrow, the thought that she 
would have to see Michael. . .... . 


2 

Michael was alone on the terrace the next morning 
when Anna came out to breakfast. She had risen 
at five, after a wakeful night, and had gone to a 
very early Mass in a convent chapel. She didn’t even 
want that walk home with Michael which had been 
such a delicious thing of late. 

“Where’s Gay? Have you seen her?” said Anna. 

“Bathing,” said Michael, laconically. 

Anna poured out a cup of coffee and gave it to 
him. They sat down to breakfast, Anna very pale 
and silent with heavy shadows round her eyes; 
Michael sitting opposite a little puzzled at the whole 
situation. The pieces didn’t seem to fit together, 
somehow. Only what was quite clear to him was 
that there had been a very unfortunate squabble be¬ 
tween the two girls. 

Anna, who was almost raw with sensitiveness just 
then, believed that his silence betrayed reproach and 
condemnation. Perhaps he really believed that she 
had attacked Gay without cause. A lump rose in 
her throat. She drank some coffee, but could eat 
nothing. 

“You’re not eating, Anna.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“I say, what’s the row between you and Gay?” 

“What has she told you?” said Anna, leaning 


THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 239 

forward a little and fixing her clear gray eyes upon 
him. 

“Oh, well, she told me you’d said she was trying 
to push this marriage between you and Selvi for 
motives of her own. I think you were unjust, Anna. 
What motive could she possibly have except a wish 
for your happiness?” 

A flush stained the pallor of her face. So he did 
blame her. He had accepted unquestioningly Gay’s 
version of the story. 

“She was simply awfully upset about the whole 
thing,” continued Michael; “she wanted to go away 
first thing this morning. I urged her not to do that. 
I felt, you see, that there must be some mistake.” 

“I was angry with her for encouraging Countess 
Selvi to believe that I wanted to marry her son.” 
Anna did not look at Michael as she spoke. Her 
voice was low and troubled. 

“Well, if she did, you must give her credit for 
having believed that you wished it—that your happi¬ 
ness was concerned.” 

“My happiness!” said Anna, bitterly. 

“You see she’s so tremendously fond of you. And 
I suppose it hurt her to think you could so—misjudge 
her. ...” 

The lump threatened to choke her. Michael 
didn’t understand, and she couldn’t possibly explain 
the matter to him without showing him an impossible 
glimpse of her own heart. 

“It’s so awfully unlike you, Anna. I can’t under¬ 
stand. . . .” He looked at her almost wistfully. 

“But she knew that I only liked Benny as a friend,” 
protested Anna. “Why should she pretend to his 
mother that I want to marry him? I couldn’t get 
the countess to believe me. She thinks that I’m hesi¬ 
tating—that I don’t know my own mind. . . .” 

“Oh, I’m sure she didn’t imply anything quite as 


240 


ANNA NUGENT 


definite as that,” said Michael uneasily, not able to 
remember exactly what Gay’s words had been, and 
yet conscious that they had produced that unfortunate 
impression upon himself. Gay had eagerly espoused 
Selvi’s cause, as if she were aware from her very 
intimacy with Anna that she wished to marry him. 
Both Michael and the countess had been ready to 
accept Gay’s opinion, because if she didn’t know what 
Anna felt about it, who did? 

Anna thought: “What motive could she have had 
unless it was to get me out of the way—to make the 
path clear for herself and Michael?” 

And perhaps she had already succeeded. Michael, 
more dear than ever, even in his austere condemna¬ 
tion of her, seemed infinitely removed. It was true, 
then—he regarded her still as a child to be rebuked 
and corrected. The thought lashed her pride. She 
felt humiliated. She had never been to him a woman 
to be loved, and at that moment her own love for 
him seemed like a fierce consuming thing that was 
eating up her very life. And it was stained with 
shame because he had no love to give her in re¬ 
turn. . . . 

“Do forgive Gay for anything she may have said 
or done,” he said suddenly in a more gentle voice. 
“She—she needs your friendship, Anna. This has 
hurt her more than you think.” His tone was urgent. 
What would Gay do if she lost Anna as well as 
Rodney? . . . 

“Has it? I am sorry,” said Anna, helplessly. 
She hardly knew what she was saying, the pain of 
it all bewildered and confused her. She seemed to 
see Michael’s face across drifting mists. So he was 
learning to love Gay, with all her beauty, her way¬ 
wardness, her strange fascinating power. He was 
beginning to respond. He was going to repair his 
brother’s want of fidelity, in the most practical man- 


THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 


241 


ner imaginable. He was going to lift Gay from the 
dust whither Rodney’s careless defection had flung 
her. 

“I expect you’re quite right, Michael. I*—mis¬ 

judged her,” she said in a cold, emotionless voice. 

Breakfast was finished. Anna rose from the table 
and went towards the house with a face of stone. 
In that moment she seemed to be bidding Michael 
a definite and eternal farewell. 

Gay had come between them so adroitly that even 
Michael himself had never suspected it. Gay was 
the innocent, the injured one. He was shifting his 
support to her side. That was why he had been so 
cold and stern and condemnatory. The work of 
disillusionment had already begun. 

Anna was persuaded now that he had never cared 
for her at all. She ought to have listened to Mrs. 
Nugent’s warning. It had been a wise counsel, and 
she would have done well to heed it. 

But her pride was up in arms. 

“I’ll do what they wish—I’ll marry Selvi,” she 
thought. “It can’t matter what happens to me now.” 

She must show them all that she didn’t care. She 
must make the path smooth and easy for them. She 
was, in spite of all things, just a little in their way. ... 

And then suddenly she had a great longing to go 
way from Sant’ Elena, with all its shining delicate 
beauty, its wide pale Bay, and lovely wooded moun¬ 
tainous shores. She had been perfectly happy there 
until Michael came, regarding those intervening 
months as a time of probation, of necessary waiting. 
A time of quiet preparation for the happiness that 
she had truly believed was in store for her. Gay 
had destroyed it all. 


242 


ANNA NUGENT 


3 

“Gay, Fm sorry I was so horrid to you last night. 
Do forgive me, and try to forget it. Fve come to 
ask you, too, not to go away.” 

Anna’s forgiveness was quite genuine; it welled 
up a stormy emotion from her heart, which felt as if 
it must be breaking. 

When she looked at Gay now in her hard beauty, 
her assurance, her efficiency, she thought miserably: 
“Of course he loves her. It’s only natural, fought 
to have foreseen it. She conquered Rodney just as 
easily.” 

Gay did not speak. She gazed at Anna with an 
astonished, incredulous expression from which a cer¬ 
tain relief was not altogether absent. 

“Michael’s shown me I was wrong,” Ajnna added 
quietly. 

“Michael!” repeated Gay. 

“Yes. He was almost angry with me.” Her voice 
had a slight quiver in it, but her face was stonily 
calm. 

She felt that she was looking at Gay for the first 
time as Michael’s future wife. . What other sequel 
could have logically closed his visit? And she 
mustn’t quarrel with her, just for that reason. She 
mustn’t grudge her this happiness. She was blaming 
herself for that passionate outburst more than 
Michael had ever blamed her. And, after all, was 
it not in a sense his own doing, since he had learned 
in these few past weeks to care so much for Gay? 
Destiny had thrown those two eminently attractive, 
intelligent people together. And the very nature of 
Michael’s mission to Sant’ Elena had given him a 
certain initial advantage and power. 


THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 


243 


“I think that perhaps you and Michael-” said 

Anna, timidly. Even now she could not put it into 
words. 

“Oh, you’ve seen, then, that I was getting keen 
about Michael?” said Gay, in her frank easy manner. 
“He’s like Rodney, but a thousand times more de¬ 
pendable, and reliable. And you’d always assured 
me there was nothing between you. If I’d thought 
there had been, you know, I should have sheered 
off.” 

“No—there was never anything between us,” said 
Anna, calmly. Nothing but the whole of her life’s 
love, which he did not need. . . . 

“And perhaps that’s why I thought that you and 
Selvi. . . . Anyhow I’m awfully sorry I upset you 
by giving the countess a wrong impression. I felt 
so certain that was what you wanted. But I oughtn’t 
to have interfered—I don’t wonder you felt a bit 
wild with me. I’m glad, though, that you didn’t 
really mean it.” 

She went up to Anna and kissed her with some¬ 
thing of her old affection. 

“You can never guess what you’ve done for me,” 
she whispered, with tears in her dark eyes. “I don’t 
think I’ve ever really cared for anyone in my life 
before. It was never like this with Rodney—I think 
now there was always a certain amount of ambition 
mixed up with my feeling for him. A wish to be 
rich and independent . . . you know how I hated 
having to slave for my living. Never being able 
just to enjoy myself like other girls! Some women 
like working,” she went on musingly, “but I never 
did. I had capacity, and circumstances compelled 
me to use it.” 

Anna listened as one in a dream. So Gay felt 
certain that she was going to marry Michael. He 



244 


ANNA NUGENT 


must have said something—given her at least some 
hint—for her to speak with this assurance and so 
unashamedly of her own love for him. „ 

“Oh, how happy she must be—how wonderful— 
Anna thought. She returned Gay’s kiss almost 
timidly. She must never guess, never know. Still 
less must Michael know. But the destruction of 
her dream was complete now; it had perished even 
as she listened to Gay’s frank, explicit statements. 

“Dear Gay,” she murmured, something of her old 
feeling for her strangely returning. All her anger 
had vanished, and in its place she was surprised to 
find a new tenderness for her—for the woman whom 
Michael loved and who was to make him happy. 
Some day perhaps they would think of her gratefully 
for having thus brought them together. ... 

Her forgiveness of Gay had an eager quality, as 
if it came like an impetuous stream from her heart 
blotting out all the unkind hostile thoughts she had 
had only yesterday. Enmity and anger seemed to 
her then like evil black fluids flowing over the soul 
and staining it. 

She put her arms around Gay’s neck. 

“Oh, Gay, forgive me for all my unkind thoughts 
and words!” 

Gay laughed, and her laughter held a happy con¬ 
tented sound. “What a tender conscience you’ve got, 
you baby! As if it mattered!” 

And she left Anna, and went singing down the 
stairs. 

Anna looking from the loggia a little later saw 
them going out in the boat. Gay was rowing, and 
Michael sat opposite to her; she felt that they were 
looking into each other’s faces, serenely content and 
satisfied. 

Of course they loved each other. It would be a 
beautiful marriage for Gay. Michael, as a zealous 


THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 


245 


convert, would not rest till he had brought her back 
to the practice of her religion. He would want that 
for Gay. She must put her soul into his hands, too. 
He would always be able to feel perhaps that he 
had helped to save that soul; that his own conversion 
had been very swift to bear fruit. 

The water flashed from the oars, sparkling like 
diamond drops. Soon Gay had rowed swiftly round 
the point of San Gervasio, and the boat with its 
occupants vanished. 

Some lines she had once read somewhere came 
into Anna’s mind then; she repeated them to herself 
almost mechanically: 

By the blue sea to-day 
You stood long by my side, 

Watching the sunshine play 
Upon the bright blue bay, 

As though you had not died. . . . 

As though you had not died . . . . Yes, she had 
lost Michael as truly and as surely as if he had died. 
She must never think of him again. She raised her 
hand and waved it towards San Gervasio in a kind 
of symbolic, eternal farewell. . . . 


4 

Evening had come and the boat had not returned. 
Anna had hardly expected her guests to hurry back; 
she felt that this would be an important day for 
them both. Perhaps when they did return they would 
be able to tell her of their engagement. 

This thought had been with her all day, and in¬ 
stead of banishing it as something unpleasant and dis¬ 
tasteful, she had forced herself to regard it bravely. 


ANNA NUGENT 


246 

She wanted to be able to congratulate them sincerely, 
when they did come to her with this wonderful piece 
of news on their lips. She wanted to feel, too, some¬ 
thing of the pleasure she was going to express. 
Sacrifice had been demanded of her—a heavy bitter 
sacrifice, and she was determined to offer it gladly. 
One could always bear things, so she had been taught, 
by looking at them quite supernaturally. And it was 
thus in her imperfect, hesitating, human way that 
she tried now to look at this impending event. She 
wondered a little that she should feel so chilled and 
shaken, despite her high courage. 

Already the colored lights of sunset were beginning 
to float over the Bay, shifting in kaleidoscopic 
fashion. The mountains were assuming their dark 
mysterious evening robes of royal purple. The for¬ 
ests were wrapped in shadow as if preparing for 
slumber. Far off, a young crescent moon was floating 
over the headland of Spezia. 

She heard steps in the hall and looked up, ex¬ 
pecting to see Gay and Michael. Instead, her eyes 
rested upon the tall vigorous form of young Selvi. 

She had not seen him for quite a long time—not 
indeed since the day when his mother had first 
sounded her on the question of their marriage. She 
could not be blind now to his expression of trium¬ 
phant pleasure at discovering her thus alone. 

“Have your guests gone out?” he asked, when the 
first slightly embarrassed greetings were over. 

“Yes. They’ve been out all day in the boat.” 

She glanced a little wistfully towards the promon¬ 
tory of San Gervasio that had hidden the boat from 
her view that morning. She was thinking, too, of 
that first wonderful day of Michael’s coming, when 
the seed had surely been sown for Gay’s present 
golden harvest. 

Benny was dressed in English fashion like most 


THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 


247 


Italian youths. Yet to an observant spectator there 
were subtle differences in the details of his attire. 
His soft silk shirt had a slightly wider collar, and 
his hair instead of being cropped close to his head 
was worn rather long in front and brushed straight 
back in a wavy plume from his square fine forehead. 
But these things added a certain picturesque quality 
to his appearance. He had a profile like an antique 
Roman medal, clearly cut and practically perfect in 
line. He was tall, dark, and slender; there was 
something graceful, too, about his pose as he flung 
himself back into a wicker chair. 

“Anna—I’m tired of waiting,” he said suddenly. 

The color spread over her face like a slow stain. 
She was thinking rebelliously: “Oh, if I could have 
heard Michael say that!” „ 

“And I wish the handsome cousin would go away, 
continued Benny, imperturbably. ( 

“I daresay he will go soon,” said Anna. But he 
has nothing to do with—the question of your wait¬ 
ing.” 

As she spoke she realized how definitely and com¬ 
pletely Michael was lost to her. Over there, behind 
the promontory where the water ran deep in hues 
of emerald and peacock blue, Michael was even now 
perhaps telling Gay that he loved her. ... 

She wondered if the pain would ever become less, 
would ever die. 

“There’s no one, then?” he said. 

“No one.” f . . 

Benny smiled. Like most Italians he was simple 
and subtle, jealous and passionate. 

“Will you marry me, Anna, since there’s no one 
else? I’ve been so afraid of the handsome cousin!” 

Anna was silent. 

“I think my mother’s told you how much I love 
you. We can have such a happy life here at Sant’ 


ANNA NUGENT 


248 

Elena. I believe at heart you’re much more Italian 
than English. And so am I. . . 

She was still silent. She was weighing his words. 
If she consented to marry him wouldn’t that show 
Michael very clearly indeed that she didn’t care? 
That he was perfectly free? That the old friend¬ 
ship, intimate and tender too in its way, counted 
for nothing now? ... 

“Yes, I will marry you,” she said, in a toneless 
voice. 

Benedetto came across to where she was sitting 
and bending down he took her hand in his and 
kissed it. 

“I love you,” he said, “we shall be perfectly happy. 
You shall never go back to your cold England.” 

He wondered afterwards why her hand, on that 
hot evening, should have been as cold as ice as it lay 
in his. 

“It will make my mother so happy, too. She has 
always wished to have you as a daughter.” He 
longed to hear her say that she loved him too, but 
there was something cold and unresponsive about her 
that checked and frightened him. 

“Tell me that you’ll marry me very soon, Anna. 
There’s nothing on earth to wait for, is there? Mr. 
Nugent told my mother you were absolutely free to 
decide these things for yourself.” 

“I must think it over, Benny—I’m feeling bewil¬ 
dered. Do you mind if I ask you to leave me quite 
alone?” 

There was something piteous, almost childish, in 
her appeal. 

“Of course.” He rose, kissed her hand again, 
lingering a little over the embrace this time. “But 
I may come again very soon, may I not? To¬ 
morrow?” 

“Yes, to-morrow.” 


THE PLOT SUCCEEDS 


249 


“In the morning?’’ 

“Yes. In the morning.” 

“And I may tell my mother the good news?” 

“Yes, do tell her.” She smiled faintly. 

“To-morrow,” he said, “you must promise me that 
the wedding shall be very soon.” 

“You must let me think it over. Perhaps I shan’t 
want to have it just yet.” 

His face fell a little. He was so eager, but his 
love failed to sweep Anna on the warm tide of its 
current. Perhaps she dreaded yielding up her pres¬ 
ent complete liberty. Her life here was free and 
happy, and the prospect of any change might con¬ 
ceivably terrify her. But he had won her promise, 
just when he was beginning to feel most hopeless, 
and he must be content with that. 

He went away, his face aglow with excitement 
and happiness, although her cold unresponsiveness 
had chilled him a little. But she was very young, he 
told himself, hardly more than a child. 

As he went down the path to the gate he heard 
voices on the terrace. Turning his head abruptly he 
saw two tall figures silhouetted darkly against the 
flaming gold of the sky. They were Michael Nugent 
and Gay Lawton. Once he had feared their influ¬ 
ence over Anna, seeing in them both people who 
might for their own reasons wish to step in and 
prevent the marriage. But in his new happiness he 
could look at them with indifference. 

He went out of the gate into the highroad without 
attempting to greet them. 


CHAPTER XIII 

AN AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 
I 

A NNA heard them come into the house. To avoid 
. meeting them just then, she slipped out through 
the door of the loggia, and, skirting the edge of the 
cliff by a path that was little used, she gained the 
terrace without being observed. 

The twilight was rapidly spreading its dusky-blue 
veils over the sky, sea and mountains. Spica trembled 
in the south-west, a sharp glittering point of light. 

The fragrance of tuberose and jessamine was al¬ 
most suffocating in the still, hot, evening air. There 
was scarcely a breath from the sea, which lay there 
calm and pale as a mirror. Westward a rim of 
twinkling lights revealed a little town that had sunk 
obscured into the shadows. 

She was standing there so lost in thought that she 
did not hear the sound of approaching footsteps. It 
was not till Michael was actually standing beside her 
that she perceived his presence. 

He had come to tell her. She smiled, waiting for 
him to speak. 

“Anna—you avoid me. I never see you now. 
I’m afraid I offended you this morning by my plain 
speaking. Forgive me.” 

One of her hands was resting on the stone ledge 
of the balustrade, and to her surprise he laid his 
upon it. She did not move. His touch, unexpectedly 
tender, unnerved her a little. 

250 


AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 251 

“You were quite right to say what you did. And 
there is really nothing to forgive.’’ Her eyes, as they 
met his, were dull and heavy. 

“And all day I’ve been thinking that was why you 
wouldn’t come out with us,” he said gently. “But 
Anna—you really mustn’t let me in for any more 
long days with Gay. This one has seemed perfectly 
unending. I want to be kind to her as you know—but 
there’s a limit to my unselfishness!” 

Unselfishness? What did he mean? 

“My time here is so short now that I do want to 
see as much of you as possible!” 

Anna withdrew her hand. Her face softened and 
lost its look of rigidity. It seemed to her that, 
strangely and miraculously, Michael had returned to 
her. But it was too late. Just a couple of hours 
too late. ... 

“By the way, Selvi’s been here, hasn’t he? I 
thought I saw him leaving the house just as we were 
coming in.” 

“Yes, he’s been here,” said Anna dully. 

“Is he making things difficult for you, Anna?” 
asked Michael. 

“No—no! . . . Michael—I’d like you to be the 
first to know. I have promised to marry Benny. He 
came to ask me to be his wife—and I gave him that 
answer.” 

Michael’s face grew rigid. He too became con¬ 
scious of the stifling fragrance of the tuberoses 
standing there like a pale scented army, with their 
stiff columns of white stars. The lisp of water against 
the rocks teased him with its monotonous sound. He 
seemed to be regarding Anna from an immense, an 
incalculable distance. She was going to marry Selvi, 
after all her indignant asseverations to the contrary. 
That was how she had used that, freedom he had 
secretly accorded to her. To set eternal barriers be- 


252 


ANNA NUGENT 


tween them, just when he believed his own hopes were 
about to materialize. 

“You knew he was coming? Is that why you 
wanted to get rid of me to-day?” 

The appalling injustice of this suspicion hardly 
wounded her. She answered quite calmly: “No, I’d 
no idea he was coming.” 

“Do you love him, Anna?” he demanded, so 
fiercely that she shrank a little away from him. 

Oh, why had he not made things quite clear to her 
before it was too late ? She seemed to have cast away 
his love of her own will. 

“You’ve no right to ask me that.” Her voice was 
cold and steady. 

His anger subsided, leaving only sadness. 

“That’s true. But I’ve one right at least—the 
right my own love for you gives me. ... to know 
that this is for your happiness.” 

My own love for you. . . . Was she dreaming or 
had he really spoken those words? She felt that she 
would carry them forever in her heart as well as in 
her memory. 

She knew now that Michael loved her, had always 
loved her. What foolish scruple had kept him silent 
for so long? 

“Are you going to be married soon?” 

“I don’t know. He wants it to be soon.” 

She tried to picture herself going up the aisle of 
the Cathedral dressed as a bride, all in white-with a 
white veil and the kind of head-dress that modern 
brides wear. Benny there, waiting for her, his eager 
glowing face, his dark bright eyes. Countess Selvi 
looking on with smiles and tears. The parroco stand¬ 
ing there. The red faldstools. ... 

She shrank from the picture. It was incredible. 
She must have been mad. Her misery had forced 
her into this bitter dilemma. Yet all the time she 


AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 253 

had only wished to make the path quite clear for 
Michael and Gay. ... 

But perhaps something would happen before that 
dreadful day came. She would try to put it off. She 
would pray that Benny might cease to care for her. 
Almost she would pray to die before that marriage 
could take place. . 

“I shall leave to-morrow, Anna,” said Michael. 
“The early train—there’s one about nine, isn t 
there?” He moved a step away. 

“To-morrow?” 

Yes, that would be the final parting. He would 
never return. He would never try to see her again. 
They would be lost to each other. 

“Yes. Even you can hardly pretend that you want 
my presence now!” 

“I—I have never pretended,” she said. 

But he misinterpreted her, as it seemed to her wil¬ 
fully. “No—to be perfectly fair you haven’t! 
You’ve thrown me into Gay’s society morning, noon, 
and night. But I never guessed it was because you 
liked to have these Selvis hanging around!” 

In his rising anger he was scarcely conscious of 
what he was saying nor of the insult his words con¬ 
veyed. r 

“He hasn’t been hanging around. I hadn’t seen 
Benny for weeks till to-day,” said Anna. 

Oh, why did he stand there flinging hard and sar¬ 
castic words at her—hinting, too, of a love about 
which until now he had been so scrupulously silent? 
It couldn’t be that all the time he had cared, and 
never told her so, when he had even made her believe 
that he was in love with another woman? Yet the 
fact that he hadn’t cared for Gay revealed itself 
clearly for the first time. He had wanted—oh, irony 
of ironies!—to be rescued from Gay. . . . 

“I suppose it would be banal to say that I shall 


2 54 


ANNA NUGENT 


never marry,” he went on, “but that’s what I feel 
about it at present. Oh, Anna, you assured me only 
yesterday that you didn’t care for Selvi—that you 
didn’t want to marry him! You almost quarreled 
with Gay for daring to suggest to his mother that you 
did. What has come over you to change you so?” 

He stood in front of her as if demanding the truth 
from her. And what could she say? That she 
loved him and that she had made a perfectly useless 
sacrifice, so that the path might be clear for him to 
marry Gay? 

“It will do no harm to tell you now that I love 
you,” he went on, in a low thrilling voice, that to her 
ears seemed to be filled with a most matchless music. 
“But I didn’t mean to speak yet. It didn’t seem quite 
fair—you were so young—so inexperienced—you 
had met scarcely any men but myself, and there was 
the old friendship between us which began when you 
were a little girl. I thought it would be best to leave 
you alone for a year or two. And now this Selvi has 
stepped in where I feared to tread. . . 

No harm to tell you now that I love you ... it 
didn’t seem quite fair. ... I thought it would be 
best to leave you alone for a year or two. . . . Frag¬ 
ments of these sentences buzzed in her brain, like an 
imperfect phonograph record, echoing with a sort of 
rough rhythm. 

“But I do love you, Anna—always, remember 
that!” He came a step nearer, and now his voice was 
all changed and tender. “And I’ve got to thank you 
for other things, too—for taking me up to the door 
of the Catholic Church . . . for opening all that 
world to me. So it hasn’t all been lost. . . . And 
now there’s nothing left for me but to wish you every 
happiness. I’m sure you will be happy. I’m equally 
sure you wouldn’t marry Selvi unless you cared for 
him. You’ll settle out here forever now.” 


AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 255 


“Michael—don’t go!” she cried, putting out her 
hand as if to detain him. 

He had just turned as if going toward the house 
when she stopped him. She felt that this was perhaps 
the last time she would ever see him quite alone. 

“Had you anything else to tell me?” lie said, 
looking down at her pale face that made him think 
of some white flower in the dusk. 

“Then you never thought of—marrying Gay?” she 
said, in a voice that was not quite steady. 

“My dear child, what on earth do you mean? 
Marry Gay!” 

There was amusement as well as scorn in his voice. 

“You didn’t like going about with her always?” 

“I liked her as a companion, but one gets very tired 
of her. And every day I hoped that you’d say you 
were coming. It was Gay suggested that you might 
want to stay at home in case the Selvis came. Gay 
tried to prepare me—I see that now—but I didn’t, 
I couldn’t, believe her.” 

“I thought you meant to make up to her for all 
Rodney’s faithlessness.” 

“My darling Anna, you’ve invented a charming 
little romance, but I should never wish to marry Gay; 
nor would she, I’m certain, ever want to marry me. 
It’s true I thought that going about a bit with her 
might take her thoughts off her disappointment, but 
I’ve missed in consequence many many hours of you. 
Even to-day—my last. ...” 

When he thought of Anna and Selvi a kind of rage 
possessed him. He still believed that the countess 
had over-persuaded Anna, had in a sense prevailed 
upon her to marry her son. But he had never thought 
that Anna would be so easily overpowered. For all 
her look of fragility she had plenty of strength and 
vigor. She could hold her own. There was sterner 


ANNA NUGENT 


256 

stuff in Anna than perhaps anyone but himself would 
give her credit for. 

He made a last effort. “You’re sure—you re per¬ 
fectly sure—that you care for this Selvi? Oh, Anna, 
it isn’t too late for you to draw back. Only don’t ruin 
your beautiful life, my darling! .• 

“Oh, Michael, don’t torture me,” she whispered, 
looking up at him with terrified eyes. 

“Because, if you’re not sure, do for heaven’s sake 
let me take you back with me to London to-morrow!” 

“No—no—that’s impossible—” she said. 

He turned away abruptly then and walked towards 
the house. His footsteps fell firmly on the gravel 
path. It was only then she realized that he had 
offered her a last chance of escape—had wanted her 
to leave Sant’ Elena with him and go back to London 
. . . and she had refused. She had given her word 
to Benny—even Michael could hardly wish her to 
withdraw it that very same day. He would only 
think her capricious and faithless, not knowing her 
own mind. She felt as if she must have forfeited in 
this last half hour something of that love which all 
these months had been so surely hers. 

She was once more alone, and almost unable to 
believe in the reality of the conversation that had 
just taken place, even as last night it had seemed im¬ 
possible that she and Gay could have said such cruel 
and angry things to each other. All these succeeding 
scenes were to her part of an evil dream from which 
she would surely soon awake to find those old crystal- 
clear relations with Michael still happily prevailing. 
He didn’t love Gay; he loved her, and because of 
this love he was going away on the morrow, unable 
to witness her happiness in which he had no share. 
I love you— yes, at last she had heard those words 
from his lips. 


AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 257 


In the midst of her grief they brought her an in¬ 
describable joy. 

“Something will happen—something must hap¬ 
pen—” she thought. 

She had been the victim of a hideous mistake. She 
had believed that Michael and Gay wished to be to¬ 
gether. And Michael, prompted by Gay, had be¬ 
lieved that Anna had remained at home in order to 
see Selvi. They had been at cross-purposes from 
beginning to end. It was humorous, grotesque, far¬ 
cical, and yet so heart-breaking. . . . 

She heard Gay’s voice: “Anna! Anna! Aren’t 
you coming in? It’s ages past dinner time.” 

She went slowly back to the house. 

2 

“I’m leaving to-morrow,” said Michael to Gay, 
that evening after dinner when they were all three 
sitting in the loggia. 

She looked up quickly. “Oh, are you? Isn’t that 
rather a sudden decision?” 

“Yes, it’s sudden in a way. But I’ve heard news 
to-night that makes it absolutely necessary for me to 
go home.” 

Even Gay noticed his cold, changed voice. Michael 
was the least vain of men, but he had come to the 
reluctant conclusion at last, that she had had some 
special motive in persuading him that Anna was 
going to marry Selvi. He didn’t in the least know 
what it was, but she had plotted and schemed with 
such success that the engagement, which yesterday 
had seemed so unlikely, was to-day an accomplished 
and apparently irremediable fact. 

Gay did not question him. So far she held no 
clew to the truth. But both Michael and Anna had 


2 5 8 ANNA NUGENT 

been very silent during dinner, and she felt convinced 
now that whatever had happened to drive him away 
from the Villa Caterina, it was something that sensibly 
affected them both. What could it be? Her con- 
science was not altogether easy. She was aware or 
having quibbled and prevaricated, and deliberately 
induced Michael and the countess to believe that 
Anna intended to marry Benedetto. But even sup¬ 
posing he had discovered all that—and Anna had 
come alarmingly near to the truth last night that 
was scarcely an adequate reason for his sudden de¬ 
parture and his strangely altered looks. No some¬ 
thing had happened of which they were both aware, 
and she was not to be let into the secret. She looked 
from one to the other, but their grave, reserved 
“Nugent” faces betrayed nothing. 

Michael went up to his room rather earlier than 
usual to make his few preparations for the journey. 
He was still feeling dazed, a little stunned, and 
utterly unable to understand why Anna had done this 
thing. 

Gay accompanied Anna up to her room in the 
turret, and would have gone in for a chat as she often 
did, but Ajina quietly said: 

“I’m tired to-night, Gay. I want to be alone.” 

“Oh, all right, old thing. Good-night,” said Gay. 

She heard the scraping sound of a key turned in 
the lock. So Anna was going to ensure herself against 
interruptions. And yet that trivial little action made 
Gay feel more uneasy than before. 

“But they can’t really prove anything,” she thought 
confidently. 

That night, however, she hardly slept at all, but 
tossed restlessly on her bed. It was the unusual heat, 
she told herself, but all the time she felt that some¬ 
thing terrible must have happened to drive Michael 
away like that. She had been with him nearly all day, 


AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 259 


and he had been just as usual, cheerful, interested, ap¬ 
parently well amused. And he had made no mention 
of returning to England. Something must have hap¬ 
pened. . . . 

“I must get it out of Anna,” she thought. 

Her heart sank a little when she thought of 
Michael’s going. It would be hateful at Villa 
Caterina without him. Of the larger issues which 
were at stake she dared not think. 

3 

They all breakfasted together quite early on the 
terrace, and Anna and Gay both walked up to the 
station with Michael to witness his departure. 

To Anna it was almost a relief to see him buying 
his ticket, tipping the porter, flinging a newspaper 
into a corner seat when the train came in . . . just 
the normal ordinary things a man did when setting 
out on a journey. 

His face was composed though not cheerful. 
There was no trace of last night’s storm upon it. He 
did not see Anna alone before he started, and no 
word of an intimate kind passed between them. 
Gay’s silent presence had prevented that. They had 
both secretly hoped that she would not go to the 
station, but she seemed to think it a matter of course 
that she should accompany them. 

Michael’s hard face had betrayed no emotion when 
he said good-bye to Anna; it looked singularly rigid 
and inflexible. Idly he wondered what Gay would 
do when Anna’s marriage took place. But a girl so 
eminently capable and efficient would be certain to 
fall on her feet. Anna would help her to find an¬ 
other job. And she had a good friend too, in Mrs. 
Phipps-Moxon. . . . Probably she would marry, and 
she would make an excellent comrade, tireless, ener- 


z6o 


ANNA NUGENT 


getic, capable and efficient. What a nonsensical idea 
that had been of Anna’s to imagine that he and 


The station was filled with an acrid odor of smoke 
and hot oil. The black smoke from the train seemed 
to smudge the wonderful crystal light of the summer 
morning. Anna turned away from it almost with re¬ 
lief. It was terrible to part from Michael in this 
way, knowing now that he loved her and yet being 
unable to tell him that his love was reciprocated 
a thousand-fold. 

She walked soberly down the steep dusty hill with 
Gay. On their way to the villa they passed a gipsy 
woman carrying a brown baby* with a couple of older 
children nearly as dark as Arabs clinging to her tough, 
shabby skirt. She held out her lean bronzed hand 
and whined for an alms. Her head was covered with 
a bright cotton handkerchief, and her face was almost 
mahogany-colored. When she smiled she showed 
white cruel teeth like a wolf’s; they flashed in the 
lean, wrinkled brownness of her face. Anna thrust 
an alms into the outstretched hand, and hurried away. 
She was haunted by the evil reckless expression, the 
snarling mouth. It seemed almost like a bad omen 
meeting her just then. . . . 

“Why has he gone?” demanded Gay, suddenly, as 
they neared the gate. She could contain her curiosity 
no longer, and she was beginning to feel exasperated 
at Anna’s continued silence. 

“He wanted to go home,” said Anna, feebly. She 
would have staved off the moment of revelation had 
it been possible. 

But Gay was not satisfied. She took Anna’s arm 
and held it firmly. 

“Nonsense!” she said in a voice so husky that it 
sounded almost hoarse, “there must have been somq 
other reason. What was it, Anna?” 



AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 261 


“It was just as he said-—he had news—it made it 
impossible for him to stay. ...” 

“You’re hiding something from me,” said Gay. 

They had entered the garden, but she still held 
Anna’s arm as if determined that she should not 
escape till she had revealed the truth. 

Her own misgivings had deepened. She could 
have screamed at Anna’s obstinate silence.. 

“You must tell me,” she said; “I insist upon 
knowing.” 

“He wanted to go,” repeated Anna. “Perhaps he 
found it dull here.” 

“Are you going to marry him, Anna?” demanded 
Gay. Her eyes were sharp and keen as a sword, and 
held too something of a sword’s steely menacing 
glitter. 

“No—no—do please let me go, Gay,” said Anna. 
The grip of Gay’s fingers on her arm hurt her. She 
longed to escape from her, from her torturing ques¬ 
tions, her hostile glances. She was almost afraid of 
her at that moment. 

Gay released her with a gesture of brutal dismissal, 
as if she were flinging her off. 

“Then what’s the row about?” she asked. 

Anna hesitated. Then she said: “Gay—I think! 
you ought to know. I’m engaged to Count Selvi.” 

“You ? Engaged to Benny ? When you absolutely 
denied there was anything between you?” Gay gazecj 
at her in blank and suspicious surprise. 

“He came to see me last evening when you were 
out. He asked me to marry him.” 

“But what has that to do with Michael’s going?” 
asked Gay. 

But even as she uttered the words the truth came 
upon her in a flash. And the flash struck her like a 
burning blow, as if it had sprung from an electrical, 
lightning-like source. 


262 


ANNA NUGENT 


“When did you tell Michael?” 

“As soon as he came in last night. He found me 
on the terrace. I told him then.” 

“And that’s why he went away?” 

“Yes,” said Anna. 

Gay paused for a moment, then she said: 

“So he was in love with you all the time?” 

Anna did not speak. 

“Oh, how could you refuse him?” said Gay. 

“I didn’t refuse him. He never asked me to 
marry him.” 

“Still, he didn’t seem to feel like being a spectator 
of Selvi’s happiness,” said Gay, bitterly. 

Everything had happened just as she had planned 
and plotted. The pawns had moved to their appro¬ 
priate places on the board. Only Michael had re¬ 
fused to play his part. He had received the news 
of Anna’s engagement with outward calm. One 
could not glimpse in him the broken-hearted man. 
His Nugent reserve had covered all trace of emotion. 
But he had gone away. That was the point at which 
her plan had broken down and failed utterly. 

Always she had felt certain that if Anna’s en¬ 
gagement to Selvi took place, Michael would turn to 
her, perhaps indeed with relief. Instead he had van¬ 
ished precipitately from the scene. She knew now 
that among her clever, facile conquests she could 
never number Michael Nugent. 

“Gay—I’m sorry—I thought perhaps you and 
Michael-” 

“Thought? Why don’t you say you were afraid? 
You always hated the idea—it made you jealous and 
gloomy.” 

They had reached the house. Between the boughs 
of pine and ilex they could see the sea, its blue deepen¬ 
ing as the sun rose stronger. 

“You’ve been a changed woman since he came. 



AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 263 

He must have noticed it, too. And yet all the time 
you must have known you intended to marry Benny, 
Gay said bitterly. More than ever was she mystified 
at the turn of events. But one fact stood out with a 
terrible unequivocal clearness—Michael had loved 
Anna all the time. And because of her engagement 
he had gone away. There had never been any hint or 
suggestion on his part that he wished to see her— 
Gay—again. 

She had been secretly scheming for this marriage 
to take place, and she had made herself.believe that 
when the engagement was announced, Michael would 
ask her to be his wife. Now the unwelcome truth 
was forced upon her, that he had never cared for her 
at all. He had believed, perhaps, that she still loved 
his brother, whom he had so completely supplanted. 
All that he had done and said had been in a friendly 
endeavor to console her for Rodney’s defection. And 
all the time he had loved Anna. 

What she couldn’t understand was how Anna, 
having this wonderful love, offered to her, could 
promise to marry Count Selvi. 

Gay refused to think the tangle was of her own 
weaving. There didn’t exist a scrap of evidence to 
prove the work was hers. An adroit suggestion here 
—an observation there—a reluctance to hint pre¬ 
maturely at what was going forward—these had been 
her skilfully wielded weapons. Nevertheless the 
magnitude of the results affected her uncomfortably. 
She had pushed Anna into an engagement with Selvi, 
successfully persuading her that Michael didn’t care 
for her. And now she had driven Michael away 
from Sant’ Elena. The one solid irrevocable conse¬ 
quence of her scheming was this engagement of 
Anna’s. That it wasn’t bringing her happiness, it 
was quite easy to see. She was utterly without that 
mixture of joy, timidity, and triumph which most 


ANNA NUGENT 


264 

girls display in similar circumstances. She was just 
a shade more grave and cool and composed than be¬ 
fore. Gay was a little aghast and conscience-stricken 
as she considered all these things. 

Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, 

And matter enough to save one’s own. . . . 

Gay knew perfectly well that Anna’s life would be 
ruined if she married Selvi. She had never cared 
for him, and the countess’s importunate action had 
rendered her miserable during these last weeks. Even 
now she hardly made any pretense of loving him. 
Her motive was not clear to Gay, who for her part 
shrank from trying to probe it. She was afraid of 
finding too great a measure of consideration for her¬ 
self, besides a touch of pique following on the deep 
wound to Anna’s pride when she had been encouraged 
to believe that Michael cared for Gay and not for 
herself. 

There was, however, some consolation in the 
thought that Michael and Anna were effectually 
separated. So much had been achieved, though with 
an abruptness that was slightly bewildering. His de¬ 
parture had been sudden and decisive, like the fall 
of a curtain at the end of an act. Gay had never 
admired so much as she had done that morning, 
his coolness, his impassivity, his iron self-control. 
Those Nugent characteristics of reserve, silence, and 
an unplumbed power of endurance were attractive to 
her. One might laugh at them, but they were very 
enviable. Anna was a fool. ... She ought to have 
fought for her happiness, instead of letting it slip 
through her fingers. It had been hers for the tak¬ 
ing. 

But then Anna, like all the Nugents—and despite 
the warm Italian blood that ran in her veins—was 
utterly inscrutable. 


AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 265 


4 

It was a relief to Countess Selvi to learn of the 
unexpected departure of the English cousin. Not 
that she had ever suspected him of being in the least 
in love with Anna himself, but she felt that such in¬ 
fluence as he possessed would all be used against, 
rather than in favor of, the marriage. 

Anna spent a great deal of time at the Villa Selvi. 
She preferred meeting Benny in his mother’s house. 
The countess had acquired old-fashioned Italian ideas 
upon the amount of liberty which should be accorded 
to engaged couples. She chaperoned Anna assidu¬ 
ously, so that she scarcely saw Benny for five minutes 
alone. He was a little restive under these restric¬ 
tions, but Anna gratefully accepted them, and won¬ 
dered if as time went on she would acquire any other 
feeling towards her engagement than that of an 
active distaste. 

She had given her word, had no intention of with¬ 
drawing it, but she still cherished an immense child¬ 
ish hope that “something” would intervene to sepa¬ 
rate herself from Benny before the crucial day should 
arrive. 

Benny, however, seemed to have enough happiness 
for two. He was very much in love, and attributed 
Anna’s coldness to something that was inexplicably 
yet delightfully English in her character. That 
would all be changed when she was his wife, and his 
efforts to hurry on the wedding were almost pathetic 
to behold. 

The countess saw no reason why it should be post¬ 
poned later than October, and the end of that month 
had been tacitly fixed. Anna could therefore look 
forward to another two months of this mitigated 
freedom. But it was nevertheless very different from 


2 66 


ANNA NUGENT 


her old absolute liberty. The countess had in a sense 
taken command of her son’s future wife. Many quite 
ordinary things were condemned as strange and 
English. It was enough to make one doubt, Anna 
used sometimes to think, whether Countess Selvi had 
really been born an Englishwoman, so eager was she 
to adopt the old-fashioned prejudices that still pre¬ 
vailed among certain sections of society in Italy. 

“And you must think about your trousseau, my 
dear child,” she said one day. “I know some nuns 
who will make your things beautifully. I will take 
you to the convent to-morrow.” 

Anna was aghast. She had not given a thought 
to her trousseau, and she could not tell the countess 
how eminently distasteful the contemplation of it 
was to her. She had lots of clothes—why buy any 
more? But after a moment’s consideration, she ac¬ 
quiesced meekly: “Very well—I suppose we^ought to 
see about it soon. Next week perhaps-” 

This tendency to procrastinate seemed to point to 
a certain weakness of character, the countess thought. 
Still she preferred that Benny’s wife should have a 
weak character rather than a strong one. A woman 
who at such an early age had been accorded such a 
very complete measure of liberty might well have 
demanded an equivalent independence in her new 
life. The countess had, however, always ruled the 
Villa Selvi and she intended to do so still. 

Another day she said: 

“Anna, I think we had better write to the agents 
in Genoa to say you wish to let the Villa Caterina for 
the winter. You won’t want it after the first of 
November. Furnished houses let very well along 
this coast in the winter—English people are coming 
in greater numbers every year. But you must be 
sure to say that you require careful tenants with un¬ 
exceptionable references.” 



AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 267 


“But I’m not sure that I want to let it. I’ve never 
thought of it,” said Anna. “I might want to go there 
sometimes.” 

“When you are married this will be your home. 
And it’s waste of money to leave such a house 
empty.” 

“I’m sure though I should want to go down and 
sit in the garden sometimes,” said Anna. The idea 
was, she did not quite know why, extremely repellent 
to her. “Besides, I don’t know what Gay would do 
if I were to let it. She’d have no place to go to, 
would she?” 

“But my dear child, you aren’t going to let Miss 
Lawton stop there after you’re married? You must 
tell her frankly that you don’t want her services any 
more, and that she must look out for a new post.” 

“I want her to live there, just for the present,” 
said Anna. “She’s gone through a great deal and I’m 
afraid she’s not happy. I think it would be cruel to 
turn her out.” 

“You are too young, darling Anna, to realize the 
value of money. The rent of the villa would make 
a charming addition to your little income.” 

But on this point, Anna was less ready to give way. 
The letter to the agents in Genoa was not written, 
and for the moment the matter was in abeyance. 

But Anna did not as a rule give any hint of hidden 
obstinacy. She agreed very prettily and with no show 
of opposition to nearly all the countess’s arrange¬ 
ments and suggestions. Even to that dreadful one 
about October. . . . 

Nevertheless the countess wished sometimes that 
the girl would show herself slightly more aware of 
the immense honor that was being conferred upon 
her by this alliance with the ancient and honorable 
family of the Selvi. 

Gay was secretly making plans for her own 


268 


ANNA NUGENT 


future. She realized that Anna wouldn’t like to say 
in so many words: “When I’m married you won t 
be able to stay here any longer/’ and it therefore fell 
to her to form some plan; And here Mrs. Phipps- 
Moxon showed herself amiably prepared to come to 
the rescue. She intended to travel all the autumn, 
and was perhaps going to New York for Christmas, 
and she intimated that if Gay promised to give her no 
sort or kind of anxiety she was prepared to take her 
with her. No salary, but all expenses paid, and 
pocket-money. She added at the end of the letter: 
“You seem to have been wonderfully prudent during 
your stay at Sant’ Elena, and I am very glad of it. I 
am sure you have laid your lesson to heart. By the 
way, of course you know that Rodney Nugent is to 
marry May’s sister-in-law, Stella Belton, a delightful 
little creature. The Nugents are delighted. Do they 
like this engagement of Anna’s to young Selvi? I re¬ 
member him as such a handsome boy and quite a 
mother’s darling. I hope Anna will be firm and not 
allow her mother-in-law to live with them. It may 
answer very well with Italians, who are accustomed to 
that patriarchical manner of living, but I am sure it 
would be a mistake for anyone as English as Anna 
Nugent.” 

Despite the hint that she was prepared to stand no 
nonsense, Gay greeted this letter from Mrs. Phipps- 
Moxon with relief and delight. That lady’s notions 
of pocket-money compared very. favorably, as Gay 
knew, with most people’s conceptions of an adequate 
salary. She was very rich, very generous, and in her 
own way was fond of Gay Lawton. Of course she 
had behaved most foolishly about Rodney Nugent, 
but Mrs. Phipps-Moxon felt that the lesson wouldn’t 
eventually be wasted upon anyone so astutely intelli¬ 
gent as Gay. 

Gay read passages of this letter aloud to Anna. 


AWKWARD THING TO PLAY WITH SOULS 269 


“Oh, I thought perhaps you might have cared to 
stay on here, Gay,” said Anna. 

“That’s very kind of you, but it wouldn’t be 
possible. I shall enjoy traveling with Mrs. Phipps- 
Moxon. And you won’t want me any more when 
you’re married.” 

“You must come and stay with us sometimes,” said 
Anna. 

Gay laughed. 

“I don’t think you’ll get the countess to endorse 
that invitation, my dear,” she said good-humoredly. 
“So I wouldn’t try if I were you. By the way, Mrs. 
Phipps-Moxon wants me to join her in London next 
month. Won’t it be lovely seeing grimy old London 
again?” 

Anna flushed faintly. She had a faint yet pas¬ 
sionate longing to accompany Gay. To sqe London 
—to see Michael. ... But she put the thought 
from her almost as if it had been a wicked one. 

“I’m so glad you’ve got this nice autumn in front 
of you, Gay. It’s been so dull for you here,” she 
said, a little enviously. 

The countess, however, received the news of Gay’s 
imminent departure with some perturbation. It was 
impossible, she declared, for Anna, to live quite alone 
at the Villa Caterina. A girl of nineteen! What 
would people say? 

“But I’m not alone, dear countess. I’ve got old 
Francesca, and Settimia and Italo, and then there’s 
the gardener and his wife.” 

The countess looked at her as if trying to ascertain 
whether this ingenuousness could really be authentic 
or was only part of a tiresome perversity such as 
Anna sometimes, but very rarely, displayed. 

“My dear, servants don’t count. And you engaged 
to Benny!” 

Anna very nearly said it wasn’t her fault that she 


270 


ANNA NUGENT 


was engaged to Benny or that Gay was going away. 
But any hint of flippancy was distasteful to the count¬ 
ess, who had been born without the smallest sense of 
humor. 

•“I- shall be all right,” she said cheerfully. The 
prospect of being quite alone for a little while was 
decidedly agreeable, for she knew that after October 
she would never probably be alone again. 

In the end, however, Mrs. Phipps-Moxon wrote to 
say that her plans were changed and that she had de- 
ferred.starting on her travels. She was going to pay 
visits in Scotland for about two months and she 
couldn’t take Gay with her. 

What she failed to mention was that Mrs. Nugent 
had earnestly appealed to her not to ask Gay to come 
to London before Rodney was safely married. 

“You really never know with a girl of that sort,” 
she had hinted cryptically. 


CHAPTER XIV 

CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 
I 

M RS. NUGENT held out her hand dreamily to 
Michael and said: 

“So you’ve come back, darling Michael. Why, 
you’re quite brown! And how is dear little Anna? 

The Nugents were to remain in London during 
August that year, because it had been arranged that 
Rodney’s marriage to Stella should take place there 
about the middle of the month. The coming wedding 
was almost the only topic of conversation at the big 
house in Lancaster Gate. 

Mrs. Nugent with one of her periodic emergences 
from a state of almost chronic 9pma, was perpetually 
in consultation with the Wendies about plans and 
arrangements. 

Now, seeing Michael again after an absence that 
had lasted nearly seven weeks, she seemed to perceive 
a change in him. Always she had found it difficult to 
believe that this cold, self-contained man was her son, 
and now she found her difficulty increased. It was so 
much easier to regard May and Rodney as her own 
children—they had developed so exactly upon ex¬ 
pected lines. But Michael, although her first-born, 
seemed so different. She felt she ought to have loved 
him most just because he was her first-born. Many 
women had told her that the first child, especially 
when a son, was somehow dearer. But then Michael 
bore no earthly resemblance to the dear little baby 
271 


2J2 


ANNA NUGENT 


she had secretly thought so strange and ugly, despite 
the nurses’ asseverations to the contrary. Even when 
he was a boy she had felt a little afraid of him on 
account of his relendess accuracy, his cold scrutiny. 
So grave and industrious and critical . . . so unlike 
her darling, bright, pleasure-loving, mischievous 
Rodney. ... 

“Anna is very well,” replied Michael. “She is 
engaged to Benedetto Selvi. I remember your say¬ 
ing that would very probably happen. I must con¬ 
gratulate you upon your prophetic instinct.” 

He sat down in an arm-chair near the open win¬ 
dow. The summer evening was close and airless. 
He found the London rooms too thickly carpeted, too 
elaborately furnished, after the superior spacious¬ 
ness and emptiness of Italian ones. 

He made the announcement in a very careful me¬ 
chanical voice as if it were a piece of unimportant 
news concerning a remote stranger. 

“Selvi is a charming Anglo-Italian youth,” he 
added. 

“Oh—Selvi, yes. I remember his mother quite 
well—rather a gushing person—she used to know 
Temple. I think I saw the boy too, but of course he 
must have been very young. Dear little Anna— 
she’ll be quite an Italian now. How funny that 
seems. I hope he is well off!” 

“Oh, yes, quite. They have a charming villa,” said 
Michael. 

Mrs. Nugent was not nearly so absent-minded at 
that moment as she appeared to be. She was think¬ 
ing: “I wonder if Michael minds. When I heard 
that he’d become a Catholic I was afraid that 
Anna-” 

“And so you’ve really become a Roman Catholic, 
Michael?” she said, permitting as much as she dared 
of this train of thought to escape her in words. “I 



CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 


273 

hope you are quite satisfied? I was so afraid that 
you might regret such a rash step.” 

“I shall never regret it,” said Michael, emphatic 
cally. 

“I suppose you will want to marry a Catholic now? 
One of Lady Pennington’s girls might do—you re¬ 
member them—the younger is quite pretty. Dark 
with blue eyes—rather your own coloring! There 
isn’t much money, but Catholics are more austerely 
brought up than other people, I’ve often noticed— 
they seem to require less.” 

‘‘Thank you,” said Michael, “I have no intention 
of marrying Miss Pennington.” 

“And about Miss Lawton, Michael? We mustn’t 
forget that she was the original object of your 
journey. I hope you had no difficulty with her, and 
that you were able to make things quite clear to her? 
Rodney is to be married soon, and we don’t want to 
have any fuss of that kind. It would upset poor little 
Stella so dreadfully.” 

“You need not be afraid. There will be no fuss 
made. Miss Lawton understands the situation per¬ 
fectly. She’s a charming girl, very clever and capable. 
I felt sorry for her, the thing had been going on for 
so many years. But she bore it very pluckily.” 

“Catholic girls ought not to want to marry people’s 
rich Protestant sons, objected Mrs. Nugent. “I dis¬ 
approve of these mixed marriages with all their tire¬ 
some restrictions. And then people say the Pope 
has no authority in England. He has authority, and 
our business is to recognize it and try to circumvent 
it!” # 

Michael laughed. His mother’s ingenuousness al¬ 
ways amused him, chiefly because he was never in 
the least deluded by it. 

“Anna will have a good Catholic husband,” he 
said. “The Selvis are very pious.” 


274 


ANNA NUGENT 


“How fortunate for Anna. She’ll have everything 
she likes—a permanent home in Italy—an Italian 
husband. Has she improved at all?” 

“I don’t think I found her changed,” he said dryly. 
“But then you know I always thought her very charm¬ 
ing-looking.” 

“Did you? I never remember your saying so. 
May always said she had no style—so immature and 
unformed. I used to be so afraid you would fall 
in love with her yourself, Michael. You always 
befriended the poor little thing. And when I heard 
you’d actually become a Catholic I must own to you 
that I was a little frightened. You’ll think me a 
foolish old woman. . . .” 

He was not deceived by this ingenuous artlessness. 
He had known quite well what was in his mother’s 
mind when she had despatched Anna off so sum¬ 
marily to Sant’ Elena, having first maneuvred him 
out of the house. 

“My becoming a Catholic was the result of con¬ 
viction. It had nothing to do with Anna, except that 
I first began to learn about the Church from accom¬ 
panying her when she was a child to Mass.” 

“I wish you hadn’t been in such a hurry. I wish 
you could have come home first and talked it oyer 
with us, and consulted dear Mr. Tomlinson-Smith. 
He knows all the arguments against Rome and the 
Pope. I can’t be bothered to remember them all, 
but they are most convincing, I assure you. Was it 
quite a sudden idea of yours, Michael?” 

“I can’t say that it was. I’ve felt for a long time 
there was a good deal to be said for a Church that 
has gone on for nearly two thousand years.” 

Fresh vistas of alarm had opened before Mrs. 
Nugent’s dreamy gaze. She was thinking: “If it 
isn’t Anna, perhaps it’s Gay! It would be so like 


CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 


2 7S 


her to try to catch Michael, when she couldn’t have 
Rodney. Such a clever, pretty, wicked girl. . . 

Michael smiled a little bitterly. In the midst of 
the irremediable shipwreck that had ruined his life 
in so far as its phase of temporal happiness was 
concerned, he could still count his gain. Whatever 
Anna had deprived him of, she had at least been the 
human instrument through which he had attained to 
this spiritual gift. Day by day he was realizing more 
clearly and exactly what it meant to him, what it 
stood for, this one permanent and unalterable thing 
in a world full of such cruel change. By reading, 
studying, and above all by praying, he had finally by 
a slow and difficult but very thorough process arrived 
step by step at complete conviction. The warm 
atmosphere of faith that had surrounded him every¬ 
where in Italy had contributed not a little to that 
final accomplishment. It had pressed home to him 
the urgent need of participating intimately with that 
which, as a spectator, he had for so long loved, 
revered and admired. The smallness of Anna’s part 
in the ultimate phases of his conversion had always 
been a source of secret surprise to him. And he had 
scarcely known anything of the sharp final struggle 
which usually harasses the convert towards the end 
of that spiritual journey. What he had felt of re¬ 
sistance had only astonished him by its weakness and 
futility. 

“Now tell me more about Miss Lawton,” mur¬ 
mured Mrs. Nugent. 

“There’s very little to tell you. She bore it, as 
I say, uncommonly well, though naturally it bowled 
her over a bit at first. I can’t think what’ll become 
of her when Anna marries. You see, Selvi doesn’t 
care for her—I fancy they must have had some sort 
of squabble at one time or another, so there’d be no 
question of her staying on with Anna.” 


2 y6 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Oh, Miss Lawton is perfectly qualified to look 
after herself. She must be seven or eight and twenty 
now. And when I think she might at this moment 
have been my darling Rodney’s wife! But it doesn’t 
bear thinking of.” She clasped her hands in a kind 
of exaggerated dismay. “Do you consider her pretty, 
Michael?” 

He was getting there now, and it amused him to 
tease her. 

“Very pretty indeed. And she’s a capital com¬ 
panion. She rows and swims like a boy.” 

“And I suppose you saw quite a good deal of her, 
since dear little Anna must have been so taken up 
with her Selvi?” 

“Yes, we saw a great deal of each other. We 
did some jolly climbs together before the weather 
got too hot.” 

Her obvious discomfort provoked him into a 
slight exaggeration of his enjoyment of these things. 

“And are she and dear little Anna happy to¬ 
gether?” 

“Oh, yes—happy enough. I daresay they have 
their disagreements sometimes, like most women. 
Miss Lawton is the stronger character of the two. 
One would hardly think to see them together that 
she was in a dependent position.” 

“Oh, no wonder Selvi doesn’t like her if she hec¬ 
tors darling Anna!” 

“I don’t think I said ‘hector,’ Mother,” remon¬ 
strated Michael. 

“Well, it amounted to that. I wish you wouldn’t 
catch me up so, Michael. ... I shouldn’t like to 
think of Anna’s being bullied.” 

“There was really nothing of that kind. I am 
sorry to have given you such a wrong impression.” 

“Rodney and Stella are coming in to tea,” said 
Mrs. Nugent, changing the subject. “I can’t tell you 


CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 277 

how tiresome your father has been about the settle¬ 
ments. And he has always been so generous about 
money!” 

Michael remembered his father’s letter in which 
he had stated that the Wendies had opened their 
mouths very wide on the subject of settlements. And 
again a certain cold misgiving seized him. He felt 
a curious desire to see his father and learn more. 

2 

Tea had just been brought in, when the door 
opened and Rodney and Stella came into the room. 
Rodney was thin and rather bronzed from his years 
in India; he looked almost older than Michael. He 
had lost something of his youthful and conventional 
good looks. Gay might scarcely have recognized 
him had she seen him now. 

Stella looked a mere slip of a girl beside him. 
She was very pretty with her flawless pink and white 
complexion, her masses of wavy red hair, and her 
big blue eyes. She was dressed all in white with a 
suggestion of pale blue in her hat and dress that 
intensified and emphasized the color of her eyes. 
Beauty she had, but it was a child’s beauty, Michael 
thought, rather than a woman’s. Her brilliant hair 
was very effective, and gave one the idea of impris¬ 
oned sunshine. But always when he saw other 
women, about whom perhaps the world raved, he 
would think of Anna’s calm loveliness that owed so 
little to coloring, so much to delicacy and perfection 
of line, and he felt that no one else could compare 
with her. Yet he acknowledged, too, that the un¬ 
observant might so easily pass her by altogether, 
there was nothing vivid or arresting about her. And 
his old smile came back to him—she was like a 
tranquil landscape seen at dawn. . . . 


278 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Darling Mummie of Rodney!” said Stella, going 
up to Mrs. Nugent and kissing her with an effusive, 
almost purring affection. 

“Dear children—here’s Michael come back. . . .” 

Mrs. Nugent adored Stella’s ways—-the pretty 
graceful ways of a charming, well-bred kitten. She 
liked to be called “darling Mummie of Rodney,” and 
to be coaxed and flattered, and purred over. 

At the sight of his brother, Rodney looked slightly 
sheepish. He remembered the initial reason of 
Michael’s holiday, and he felt that he would like to 
hear all about it and how he had fared. Remember¬ 
ing, too, Gay’s tempestuous, passionate personality, 
he wondered if “old Michael” had been “stung.” 
But no, it wasn’t likely. Michael was too steady¬ 
going, and then he had never liked girls. Rum idea 
of his that—to change his religion. Rodney privately 
considered it a silly sort of thing to do. 

“How did you find Anna?” he inquired. 

“Very well indeed. She’s just got engaged to be 
married.” 

“Engaged? Who on earth to?” 

“Count Selvi. She’s known him all her life prac¬ 
tically.” 

“Young chap?” asked Rodney. 

“Yes. About twenty-three.” 

“Money?” 

“Quite enough.” 

“Oh, I’m so glad. I do love to hear of people 
being engaged,” said Stella. “How happy she must 
be! But she mustn’t be married first! I couldn’t 
bear that. Tell her I must be married first.” 

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid; there was no question 
of her being married immediately,” said Michael. 
His pain was so acute, like a sharp delicate stab 
attacking a single exposed nerve, that it bewildered 
and confused him. He contemplated his brother’s 


CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 


279 


success and happiness with a dull envy. This child 
danced around him with her eager, pretty ways, 
touching his sleeve or his hand with her little white 
fingers, lifting worshipping blue eyes to his. 

She looked years younger than Anna, though they 
must be, he thought, pretty much of an age. She 
looked more like fifteen with her tumbled red-gold 
hair, her short frocks, her thin figure and tiny feet. 

“Darling Mummie of Rodney, I dreamed of you 
last night!” 

“Did you, my dear? How sweet of you! I hope 
it was a nice dream?” 

Mrs. Nugent lent herself to this infantile form 
of conversation with considerable ability. Michael 
looked on and wondered. He had to remind himself 
sometimes that beneath that exterior lethargy his 
mother concealed a rare degree of astuteness. 

“Oh, yes, it was simply a lovely dream! Rodney 
and I had a fearful quarrel and you took my part. 
Wasn’t that priceless?” 

She gave a little gurgle of laughter. Rodney 
smiled down upon her in a proud, possessive way. 
He was delighted that she “hit it off” so well with 
his mother. 

“You delicious baby,” he said, wondering if Stella 
would ever grow up. 

She was the youngest of a big family; and her 
sisters were all many years older and had married 
almost before she was out of the nursery. Her 
parents, especially her father, adored and spoilt 
her, and May had followed their example. 

“Everyone’s so sweet to me,” she said, smiling at 
Michael as if she wanted to draw this grave-looking 
man into the charmed circle, and elicit some compli¬ 
ment or word of approval from him. 

Obscurely she wished to conquer him, for May 
had told her that he had never been in love but was 


28o 


ANNA NUGENT 


cold, misanthropic, immersed in work and business. 
Lately too he had become a Roman Catholic, and 
to Stella there was a sort of sinister yet alluring 
mystery bound up in such an action as that. 

“Of course they are,” said Michael, kindly. He 
smiled at her, feeling he would as soon have dis¬ 
appointed a child of a cake as Stella of some expres¬ 
sion of flattery. And he liked her childish blue eyes 
so full of confidence. He could not quite believe in 
such complete artlessness, but somehow that didn t 
seem to matter. 

“I want everyone to love me,” she said, snuggling 
up to Mrs. Nugent on the broad, soft sofa. Her 
smile included Rodney, Mrs. Nugent, and especially 
Michael, who was still an unknown quantity to her. 
She slipped her hand in Mrs. Nugent’s and wondered 
what Rodney’s brother thought of her. Of course 
she had seen him before, but never in this intimate 
way. 

“We’re going to the Italian Lakes for our honey¬ 
moon,” Stella said presently. “We can’t speak a 
word of Italian, either of us, but Rodney says he’s 
going to shout at them in Hindustani. Won’t that 
be fun? Did you like Italy? It must be so wonderful 
to have a villa there like Anna. Rodney, when you 
retire we must buy a villa there too, and live in it 
for three months every year.” 

“Oh, we shall both be old fogies by the time I 
retire,” said Rodney. 

Stella pouted. “I’m not going to let you remain 
forever in that horrid old Army. I don’t mean to 
stay all my life in India either, and get all brown 
and wizened like so many women do. I shall insist 
upon coming home the very instant I’m bored!” 

She leaned back, lifting her china-blue eyes to 
Rodney. 

“I’ve promised you that you shall do just as you 


CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 


281 

like about that,” he said in his easy, good-natured 
way. “You shan’t stay there a moment longer than 
you wish to.” 

“Do you think he’ll keep his promise?” she asked, 
turning to Michael. 

“Oh, I’m sure he will, to you!” 

“I don’t know. He’s got such a very firm square 
chin. Much squarer than yours. Turn round, Rod¬ 
ney. . .” She let her eyes rest upon the feature 

in question. “Yes, I’m sure you’re dreadfully obsti¬ 
nate. I believe he’ll bully me horribly when darling 
Mummie of Rodney isn’t there to take my part.” 

Rodney laughed. “Of course I shall. You’ll have 
a simply horrible time!” 

“That’s why I insisted upon having some money 
of my own,” said Stella, calmly. “I said, ‘I must 
have some because then I can leave Rodney whenever 
I want to.’ Mamma pretended to be dreadfully 
shocked. ‘Leave your husband, Stella?’ You know 
her funny Victorian way. So I said, ‘Didn’t you 
ever want to leave yours ? Oh, I suppose you were 
too well brought up.’ People are so funny, aren’t 
they, darling?” 

While she recited this little episode it came into 
Michael’s mind to ask himself whether she was really 
as babyish as she seemed. And he came to the con¬ 
clusion that she was not. 

“Is May coming up for the wedding?” 

“But of course she is. Simon and Pamela are 
going to be my page and bridesmaid. Rodney, I’m 
so glad you haven’t got three or four old sisters 
who’d want to be my bridesmaids and spoil the look 
of the whole thing. It was very considerate of 
you. All the other men who’ve wanted to marry me 
have had such heaps and heaps of sisters. How 
lucky you are only to have May.” 


282 ANNA NUGENT 

“Yes—it’s topping to have a sister like May,” he 
agreed. 

“Now you mustn’t say that—I’ve forbidden it. 
I’m ever so jealous of May. I’m always afraid you 
may like her best. You do like me best, don’t you? 

“Yes, I’m certain I like you best,” Rodney assured 
her. 

Michael listened, feeling a little baffled. But then, 
he always found himself comparing other women 
with Anna, and that was a fatal thing to do. . . . 

3 

Michael felt that he had never envisaged the char¬ 
acteristics of his own home and its inmates so clearly 
as he did upon his return from that brief absence 
abroad. He had seldom been away for so long a 
time since he left Oxford, and it seemed to him that 
either he or his relations must have changed during 
the interval. 

All through those weeks at the Villa Caterina his 
thoughts had been so deeply concentrated upon two 
things—his change of religion and his love for Anna 
—that he had scarcely had time to glance backward 
and wonder how things were going on at the office, 
except just after receiving his father’s extraordinarily 
sympathetic and understanding letter about his con¬ 
version. 

Looking across the table that first night at dinner, 
he came rather reluctantly to the conclusion that his 
father was changed, and indeed almost incredibly so. 
His hair was more plentifully sprinkled with silver, 
his face was thinner and very careworn; he had all 
the appearance of an elderly man with whom things 
were not going too well. Michael felt certain that 
he was anxious and troubled, but since everyone else 
seemed uniformly cheerful and could talk of nothing 


CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 283 

but the approaching wedding and the munificence 
of the presents, he was equally certain that his father 
had made no confession of worry to anyone present. 
They were all pursuing their normal worldly ways 
without reference to him. The extravagance, the 
luxe of the meal, struck Michael with a kind of 
dismay. There was no hint of retrenchment, rather 
it seemed there was an increased display of wealth 
as if for the purpose of dazzling Stella. 

Stella sat there, looking enchanting in a sophisti- 
catedly simple dress of silver and pale blue. She 
and Mrs. Nugent and Rodney were all going to the 
play that night. Michael was relieved to hear it— 
he hoped that their absence would secure for him 
that longed-for interview with his father. 

Athelstan talked little during the meal. He seemed 
depressed and abstracted, and quite unmoved by 
Stella’s ceaseless babble. Michael even wondered 
whether his depression could be due to illness. 

After dinner he followed him into the study. 

Athelstan sat in his big armchair, and lit a cigar. 
Then he said : 

“I’m very glad you’ve come back. Once or twice 
it was all I could do not to send for you. But you 
hadn’t had any sort of holiday for such ages, and 
sometimes it did occur to me too that it must give you 
a lot of pleasure to be with Anna again.” 

“Yes. I was very glad to see her so well—and 
happy. Mother’s told you of course about her en¬ 
gagement to Count Selvi?” 

“Yes—I was rather sorry to hear it. I feel we 
shall lose her altogether now, just as we lost Temple. 
Did you meet this Selvi? Did you like him?” 

“Oh, yes, he’s a nice boy of rather a conventional 
Italian type—very good-looking and all that—and 
with a tiresome mother who dotes upon him. But 
if Anna likes him-” 



ANNA NUGENT 


284 

Yes—there lay the crux of the whole situation. 
Did Anna like him? Or had she been goaded, 
pushed, hustled, into the engagement by the combined 
efforts of Countess Selvi and Gay Lawton? He 
could not tell, and he felt that Anna would be the 
last to speak. Having given her promise, she was 
little likely to retract it, even if she found she had 
made a mistake. Yet he could never forget the 
anguish of the look she had bestowed upon him 
when he told her of his love. It had given him a 
new hope that all his determination had been unable 
to quench. 

If she had had no love to give him in return, 
why had she looked at once so startled and so pro¬ 
foundly sorrowful at the mention of his love for 
her? There had been things that puzzled him— 
that still puzzled him—about Anna’s engagement. 

As if he had in some sort been following the trend 
of his son’s thoughts, Athelstan said suddenly: 

“I was almost in hopes that you and Anna-. 

When I heard you’d become a Catholic I was glad 
to think she was one too. But your mother assures 
me that there was never anything between you.” 

“No—there was nothing in the sense you mean. 
Anna is very young.” 

He lit a cigarette. 

“What do you think of this business of Rodney’s?” 

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “I hope it’s all 
right,” he said nervously. 

“Oh, it’s all right as far as the young couple are 
concerned. But Lord Wendle made me stump up, 
I can tell you. May’s wasn’t in it.” Athelstan’s 
brow was gloomy. “It seems Stella’s his favorite 
child, and he had very different ideas for her.” 

“Then why on earth-?” said Michael, per¬ 

plexed and perturbed. 




CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 285 


Athelstan looked slightly embarrassed. He gave 
his son an almost furtive glance. “Your mother was 
awfully keen, for one thing—and so was May. Rod¬ 
ney too. . . . And of course it’s a good marriage 
for him in a sense, though what he’s going to do 
with that silly little baby-thing I can’t imagine. But 
we shall have to economize somehow, Michael—I 
know you’ll help me all you can. It’s difficult to say 
anything to your mother—she’s no idea of figures. 
It wasn’t a very convenient moment for me to plank 
down such a big sum. It’s stung us, you know,’’ 
lie added, dropping into latter-day slang. 

“Badly?” questioned Michael. “Enough to hurt, 
I mean?” 

Athelstan looked at his son rather blankly. He 
was thinking: “If he’d only been here I believe he’d 
have given me courage to say no. But I was alone 
—I should have had them all about my ears.” But 
aloud he only said: “I know I can talk to you in con¬ 
fidence?” 

“Qf course you can. I’m Nugent and Son too, 
you know,” Michael reminded him. 

Athelstan’s face cleared a little. It took away the 
worried, anxious, hunted look, and gave him a more 
youthful aspect. The change in him just then was 
not so horribly apparent. 

“Won’t you tell me just what’s happened?” said 
Michael, his heart sinking a little at the prospect of 
such a revelation. 

“Happened? Why, what do you mean? What 
should have happened? But I wasn’t so keen as your 
mother was to pay so dearly for letting Rodney 
marry that pretty little fool.” 

“I think you were wrong to give in. It’s always 
better to make a frank statement, and to show people 
when their demands are exorbitant,” said Michael. 


286 


ANNA NUGENT 


His father’s “bluff” hadn’t deceived him. Every 
moment he was becoming more acutely and painfully 
aware that something had happened in which the 
prosperity and perhaps the honor of the firm were 
involved. 

“They’d never have forgiven me if I’d let anything 
stop the marriage,” said Athelstan. 

Michael felt indignant. His father had worked, 
even slaved throughout his married life, and he had 
got less out of the fruits of that industry than anyone. 
Money had always been spent most lavishly in keep¬ 
ing up a standard of wealth and opulence at home, 
and it had been poured forth with equal prodigality 
to settle his two younger children in life and to 
assist them in making ambitious marriages. He had 
been a cheerful and ungrudging giver. He had no 
time to spend the money himself; he had never had 
the leisure to cultivate expensive tastes.. There was 
a tiny modicum of contempt in his wife’s attitude 
towards him, although he had bestowed so much 
upon her, because he was so little of a society man. 

“Anyhow, you shouldn’t have let them, fleece you,” 
Michael said warmly. 

It had never occurred to him that Athelstan had 
given and spent beyond his means to keep pace with 
a family whose demands upon his purse grew annu¬ 
ally more formidable. Not only had he paid Rod¬ 
ney’s debts more than once, but since his daughter’s 
marriage he had advanced a large sum to Chingford. 
It was a loan, of course, but there had never been a 
hint of repayment. 

“Oh, don’t bother about that, Ching-Chang.. Dad 
can wait, and it would be awfully inconvenient to 
pay it back now,” May used to say when the subject 
was broached. 

“I felt Rodney would take it very badly if I re¬ 
fused. It might have put an end to everything.” 


CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 287 


“Oh, Stella’s a spoilt baby. They give her all 
she cries for,” said Michael. 

“She mightn’t have cried for him without the 
money,” said Athelstan, shrewdly. 

Michael’s anxiety was not in the least allayed, 
rather it was stimulated by these disclosures. He 
didn’t, however, wish to force his father’s confidence, 
although he longed to know more. Always he had 
believed Athelstan to be an immensely rich man; 
he had an enormous respect, too, for his business 
capacity and integrity; his confidence in his judgment 
had been up till now complete and absolute. And it 
hurt him to feel that that confidence was in any way 
shaken by their conversation. He knew that he had 
made an immense fortune, and that his “luck” was 
regarded in the city as proverbial. But on the other 
hand, many large fortunes as well as many solid 
companies had been unstable since the War had 
devastated Europe. And at home there had been no 
diminution of expenditure. In fact, it had seemed to 
Michael that there had been an almost exaggerated 
display. Mrs. Nugent had throughout her married 
life adopted the firm attitude that she had never 
been able to understand money, and this inability 
seemed to increase in proportion to her notions of 
what were “absolute necessities.” And she under¬ 
stood perfectly well when it was not forthcoming, 
though these occasions had been as rare as Athelstan 
could in common honesty make them. He had sel¬ 
dom denied her anything, and to begin to do so now 
would assuredly disclose the unwelcome intelligence 
that things were not so smooth as they had always 
been. And given his wife’s ingenuous loquacity, 
such a disclosure would have been perfectly fatal at 
this highly critical juncture. How critical it was he 
hardly dared even tell Michael, though he was certain 
of his son’s support and sympathy. 


288 


ANNA NUGENT 


It was an impasse , and Nugent, wise and shrewd 
in all his financial dealings, had had no wisdom with 
which to meet it. 

“I’m only afraid, Michael, that if you should want 
to marry I couldn’t do anything like for you what 
I’ve done for Rodney and May!’’ 

Michael’s dark blue eyes were fixed steadily on 
his father’s. 

“I haven’t any intention of marrying,” he said, 
coldly. 

Disappointment and relief were oddly mingled in 
Athelstan’s face. 

“I felt if you’d married Anna you wouldn’t have 
made any exorbitant demands!” 

They had all, strangely enough, considered the 
possibility of his marrying Anna. But his father 
was the only one who had betrayed any disappoint¬ 
ment at the news of her engagement to another man. 

“We needn’t consider that, now Anna is going to 
marry Selvi,” said Michael, coldly. “And in any 
case I should have made no demands whatever upon 
you. I have my share in the firm as a partner— 
that’s quite enough for me.” 

Athelstan’s face changed color, and seemed to be¬ 
come a livid yellow. “Oh, I’d forgotten that for 
the moment,” he said uneasily, shifting his glance 
from his son. Partner in a bankrupt firm—yes, there 
wouldn’t be much to be got out of that! He was 
genuinely sorry for Michael; he felt that he had 
been cruelly cheated. It didn’t help matters either 
to remember that his elder son was never likely to 
reproach him. Of all his three children he was the 
steadiest, the most reliable, although to his mother 
he was the least attractive. 

“Couldn’t we make some change now that there 
are so few of us left at home?” said Michael. “You 
and mother could move into a smaller, cheaper house. 


CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 289 

Keeping up this one must run away with an awful 
lot. And I could find some rooms.” The thought 
of an independent life was not disagreeable to him. 
He could work at his writing; he would have leisure 
and quiet. 

Athelstan made a surprising answer. 

“Move into a smaller house? Why, you might 
as well hang out a red flag at once!” he said dryly. 
“When anything’s going wrong it is a sound business 
rule to keep up appearances.” 

Now surely he must have given Michael a signifi¬ 
cant glimpse of the state of things that reigned 
secretly in the affairs of Nugent and Son. He longed 
indeed to confide in him more fully, to unburden his 
heart of some of its carking anxiety, but something 
cold and reticent in Michael’s face stopped him. 
Just the odd, withdrawn look he had had just now, 
when the possibility of his marrying Anna had been 
mentioned. And then the father and son were not 
on very intimate terms. Athelstan had never had 
the time to occupy himself personally with his three 
children; he had left all that to his wife, who in her 
turn had relegated the responsibility to qualified per¬ 
sons. When they were little Athelstan had seldom 
seen them except on their best behavior at meals, 
and their best behavior had always been so remark¬ 
ably good that he had never felt any anxiety about 
them. He had indulged May a little on account of 
her beauty, and Rodney because of his swiftness to 
grasp things. Michael had always seemed older, 
more apart, a strange thoughtful child whom his 
nurses called “stubborn.” 

“Appearances?” echoed Michael, at last, catching 
at this significant word. “Is it so necessary to keep 
them up?” 

“Absolutely necessary. But after the wedding we 
can go into things.” 


290 


ANNA NUGENT 


“You mean—it’ll have to come then?” 

Athelstan laughed bitterly—a harsh, unmirthful 

sound. . . 

“If not the deluge, at least a very efficient imita¬ 
tion of it.” 

4 

In the silence that followed this reckless and re¬ 
vealing speech, Michael’s heart gave one quick throb 
and then seemed to stop beating. It could only 
compare with that moment he had managed to live 
through somehow without exclamation of pain, when 
Anna had informed him of her engagement to Selvi. 
And even in that bitter moment he had been able 
to clutch at and seize a forlorn and faintly adum¬ 
brated hope that had strangely sustained him. But 
here of hope there was surely none. His father 
would not speak like that without very good cause. 
It must mean that “Nugent’s” was rocking to its 
foundations, and that its collapse was inevitable, per¬ 
haps imminent. 

Michael had always been so accustomed to the 
luxurious ease, the opulent atmosphere of his home, 
that it was difficult for him to believe all at once in 
this financial crisis that now threatened not only its 
security but its very existence. And amid his speech¬ 
less dismay, as little by little realization was forced 
upon him, another feeling arose to confront him. 
It was a sense of fear. Would others be involved? 
He thought of the dreadful criminal proceedings 
which had of late years frequently followed upon 
notorious crashes, and which once-wealthy financiers 
had been called upon to face. From wealth and ease 
and luxury they had in more than one famous instance 
vanished into the obscurity, the shame, of a convict’s 
cell. These erstwhile masters of men had had to 
bend their necks to a severe and harsh discipline, 


CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 


291 


to submit to a life of labor and hardship, of coarse 
food and rough attire, shorn utterly of all the ameni¬ 
ties to which they had been accustomed. 

“Dad,” he said in a choking voice, “you don’t 

mean-?” But he could not put his fear into 

words. It wasn’t possible. He had never doubted 
his father’s integrity; he could not begin to doubt it 
now. 

“It’ll hit us. No one else,” said Athelstan, as if 
answering the question his son had hesitated to pro¬ 
nounce. “I’m most awfully sorry for you, Michael. 
We shall carry on for a few months of course, and 
we might even have a stroke of luck that would stave 
off disaster. But I wouldn’t give much for your 
partnership.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Dad,” said Michael, 
immensely relieved. 

His imagination had run riot, and had shown him 
the worst. He felt that if he himself were to be 
the principal sufferer the whole thing would be easier 
to bear. Pecuniary loss seemed to him trifling in 
comparison with the loss of Anna. And then for 
the first time he was almost able to feel thankful that 
she was going to marry Selvi—that he hadn’t uncon¬ 
sciously offered her to share his own ruined life. 

He put out his hand and grasped his father’s. 
That firm, resolute touch gave Athelstan a sense of 
moral and physical support that was of infinite con¬ 
solation to him at that moment. He had always 
felt that he could depend upon Michael, and that 
there existed within this son of his unsuspected re¬ 
serves of fortitude and endurance. 

“Dad, I’ll work like anything. . . . I’ve been an 
idle beggar up till now. But you’ll see. . . .” 

“You mustn’t think it’s all my fault,” said Athel¬ 
stan. “When I took over after Patton’s death I 
was horrified to see what had been going on. I can’t 


292 


ANNA NUGENT 


tell you all that to-night—you shall have a look at 
some of his transactions later. He never said a 
word to me about them, and I knew nothing till 
after his death. You know I’d always trusted Patton 
as I should have trusted my own father.” 

“Patton!” said Michael, aghast. He too had been 
brought up on the theory that “Patton,” head of 
Nugent and Son for so many years, could do no 
wrong. “You don’t mean he’s let us down?” 

“Yes. But you mustn’t let your mother suspect 
that anything’s wrong. This final splash, you know!” 
His voice shook a little, and for the first time that 
evening he showed signs of breaking down. “We 
must hurry it on if we can. The Wendies have been 
trying to get it postponed till October—there’d be 
a risk about that. . . .” 

“But if they give Stella everything she cries for?” 

“Well, it seems she isn’t exactly crying to be mar¬ 
ried at once. Just now she’s all for waiting.” 

They heard voices in the hall. Mrs. Nugent had 
returned from the theatre with her son and Stella. 
Michael opened the study door just in time to hear 
Stella say petulantly: 

“Darling Mummie of Rodney, promise me you 
won’t let me be hurried! I do so love being engaged, 
and I’m sure Rodney won’t be half so nice when 
we’re married. It’s ridiculous of him to want to 
have the wedding in August!” 

Athelstan glanced significantly at Michael as much 
as to say: 

“You see the sort of thing I’m up against!” 

“Darling Stella! But really. . . .” Mrs. Nu¬ 
gent’s voice was unusually emphatic with its note of 
gentle protest. 

“Rodney says he won’t wait—-that he’ll never feel 
sure of me till I’m his wife. I believe he means to 
keep me under lock and key,” 


CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON 


293 

Stella came a little nearer to Michael as she spoke, 
and now she raised her blue eyes appealingly to his. 
She was like a child determined to attract the at-, 
tention and win the approbation of a particular per¬ 
son, and she had the feeling that Michael had escaped 
enchantment. Rodney’s own brother too! . . . She 
wanted him to like her. Everyone liked her. She 
put a ridiculously tiny hand upon his sleeve. 

Michael smiled down upon her indulgently. 

“Well, you mustn’t wear out poor old Rodney 
with waiting, you know, Stella. That wouldn’t be 
fair.” 

They all, for different reasons, looked gratefully 
at Michael. 


CHAPTER XV 


FAILURE 

I 

I T was settled that the original date fixed for 
the ceremony should not be changed, although 
Stella declared her dislike to an August wedding 
when so many people would be out of town, and 
only a few old bores who never missed a “smart” 
wedding would be likely to come up for it. Lord 
and Lady Wendle were inclined to support her view, 
simply because it was their habit to give in to her, 
and they were in no hurry to part from their idolized 
daughter. 

There were endless discussions, and though only 
mere echoes of them reached Michael’s ears he felt 
bored and exasperated. It was a relief to know that 
the sixteenth of August was finally fixed. 

Stella cried and pouted and said she couldn’t be 
ready. Nearly every morning she would come round 
and say: “Darling Mummie of Rodney, you’ve got 
the horridest son in the world. I do hate him! I 
can’t think why I ever got engaged to him, can you?” 
This little by-play gave her the liveliest satisfaction 
since Rodney was generally in the room, listening 
incredulously. 

Mrs. Nugent would kiss and comfort her, and 
then going out of the room, leave them together 
despite Stella’s protests. 

“You two silly babies!” she used to say, as she 
departed. 


294 


FAILURE 


295 


Michael was absorbed in work. He went through 
the accounts and was horrified at the deficit. Yet 
there might have been some hope if only Athelstan 
hadn’t weakly given in about the settlements. Surely 
a frank, manly statement to Rodney would have 
remedied everything. 

There had been folly, too, as he was not slow to 
see, going through those formidable books. Reck¬ 
less speculation as well as reckless expenditure. 

“Oh, how could you have touched those mines, 
Dad?” he said once in an exasperated tone. 

“Don’t blame me, Michael,” Athelstan said; “it’s 
bad enough as it is. I don’t know how we shall tide 
over these next few months.” 

He had a hunted, furtive look, and started vio¬ 
lently when he heard any sudden, unexpected sound. 
He avoided people—even Stella. His interest in the 
wedding was manifestly forced. He still clung to 
the pathetic belief in keeping up appearances till they 
could be kept up no longer. 

They all went to the wedding, and despite Stella’s 
gloomy prognostications the church was crowded. 
May was resplendent in a gold dress, her two chil¬ 
dren attending as page and bridesmaid. Chingford 
gave the bride away, because at the last moment 
Lord Wendle professed his inability to do anything 
so painful. This decision upset Stella very much 
indeed. Chingford would, she alleged, take her up 
the aisle as if he were running a race, and she knew 
that she should hate Rodney when she got there. 
But when the day came she looked singularly calm 
and composed, despite her extremely childish appear¬ 
ance. With her short white chiffon dress and simple 
wreath of orange-blossoms and white heather, and a 
total absence of jewelry, she seemed to emphasize 
and exaggerate her own youth. She refused even to 
wear the very beautiful pearl necklace Rodney had 


ANNA NUGENT 


296 

given her. During the ceremony her big blue eyes 
sought his face with a kind of resentful admiration. 
It was absurd to get married after only a few weeks* 
engagement. 

No one could possibly have guessed that anything 
was amiss with these “enormously rich Nugents.” 
Michael, looking round at the wonderful display of 
presents, the plate and jewelry, could hardly believe 
that the waters of the flood were even now waiting 
to engulf the firm. When he did think of it, however, 
it seemed to him that the flood was already trickling 
in through unseen interstices, quietly gathering 
strength for a great roar as of many waters, over¬ 
whelming them all except Rodney and Stella, who 
w T ould be safely beyond its menace. 

It was only when the ceremony was over, that he 
remembered Anna hadn’t even been invited to it. 
She might not have come, of course, but still he felt 
that she ought to have been asked. Now it was too 
late, he liked to think that if she had been invited 
she would certainly have come, just to have this last 
glimpse of them all before her own marriage. 

Mrs. Nugent went down to stay in Devonshire 
with her daughter almost immediately after the 
ceremony. She said she was badly in need of a com¬ 
plete change. This visit was an annual affair and 
was strictly limited to a fortnight, during which Mrs. 
Nugent always made pathetic, futile attempts to get 
on friendly terms with her small grandchildren. But 
as the presents she brought for them were soon 
smashed and forgotten, and May forbade her to give 
them sweets, she felt that her means of approach 
were limited, the children being strange, self- 
absorbed, little creatures who only cared passionately 
for their mother. 

Perhaps it would be different, she thought, if Stella 
ever had children, for in that case she would not 


FAILURE 


297 


always be able to keep them with her in India, and 
Mrs. Nugent felt sure that the Wendies, who were 
growing old, wouldn’t want to be bothered with them 
either. What more probable than that they should 
be consigned to her care? It seemed so unnatural 
that she should have nothing at all to say in the 
education and upbringing of her grandchildren. But 
these modern young mothers with highly-trained 
efficient nurses despised all old-fashioned methods, 
and would listen to no advice proceeding from a 
grandmotherly source. 

Still the house was very comfortable and the 
garden deliciously shady in this August weather, and 
both offered almost unrivaled opportunities for that 
complete indolence which Mrs. Nugent loved. She 
soon forgot her grievances about the children, and 
fell into an almost comatose lethargy that was espe¬ 
cially soothing after her recent heroic exertions in 
connection with the wedding. 

Highly-colored picture post-cards reached them 
from the Italian Lakes, whither Rodney and Stella 
had gone for the honeymoon. These necessarily 
brief communications gave but little news of the ab¬ 
sent couple. Occasionally Stella would write: “This 
is an awful hole. Rodney hates it, too, and says it’s 
hotter than India. I’m glad I had those chiffon- 
georgette frocks, they are very useful here.” And 
Rodney, with an equal lack of imagination, would 
add: “We both hate it here but we’re too happy for 
words. Give my love to Ching-Chang.” The village 
post-mistress enjoyed but secretly .shook her head 
over these laconic, semi-public missives. She felt it 
wasn’t the right spirit in which to treat such a very 
serious matter as a honeymoon. 

But though they evoked these private strictures 
from the post-mistress, Mrs. Nugent could find no 
fault with the brief missives. She felt that they 


ANNA NUGENT 


298 

entitled her to write in the following strain to her 
husband: “We have heard from Rodney and Stella; 
the dear things are ideally happy.” Possibly the one 
interpretation was as sound and true as the other. 
But Athelstan, steeped in work which could have but 
the one result, cared very little whether his son were 
happy or not. He was dreading the day when he 
should have to make confession to his wife. 


2 

Since leaving Sant’ Elena Michael had received no 
letter from Father Denham, who had been removed 
some weeks previously to a nursing home in Genoa, 
there to receive surgical treatment. He had written 
to him, and had even written to the matron of the 
home asking for news, but none had come. He was 
therefore agreeably surprised when a few weeks after 
Rodney’s wedding he received a letter in Father 
Denham’s shaky writing. 

“I had a visit, not long ago,” the priest wrote, 
“from Countess Selvi and your cousin, Miss Nugent. 
I was astonished of course to hear of the engage¬ 
ment, and perhaps you will not be offended if I say 
I had hoped for a very different fate for her. She 
looked ill, I thought, and not very happy. I am 
told Miss Lawton is leaving her quite soon. There 
was some talk of the marriage taking place this 
October, the countess told me, but her brother in 
New York died suddenly and Benedetto has had to 
make an immediate journey thither. Report says 
he is the heir to a very large fortune, but I cannot 
tell you if this is the case. Miss Nugent informed 
me it was unlikely now that she would be married 
till after Easter. I am better, and humanly speaking 
have earned a reprieve of a few months, so am to 


FAILURE 


299 


be sent to London. You must come and see me. 

I was glad to get your letters, to hear news of you. 
God bless you.” 

But it was no use now to offer him this gleam 
of hope derived from the postponement of the mar¬ 
riage. Michael reflected bitterly that everything had 
been for the best as far as Anna was concerned. 
He was no longer in a position to marry, and to 
marry on her money alone was, for him, unthink¬ 
able. Besides, in the future he might have to become 
the breadwinner for both his parents. Athelstan 
showed unmistakable signs of breaking up. He suf¬ 
fered from insomnia, his nerves were in a bad state. 

When Michael read the letter a second time, there 
were things in it that made him anxious. Anna was 
not looking well. Perhaps Father Denham would 
tell him more when he came to London. He had 
known Anna for a long time,, and was acquainted, 
too, with the Selvis. He might even be able to 
throw further light upon a situation that was becom¬ 
ing obscure. 

With this access of fortune to Benedetto, the young 
couple would be extremely rich. Michael had not 
heard that Selvi had expectations of the kind; it had 
never been mentioned to him, and he wondered if 
Anna had been aware of it. Miss Lawton was leav¬ 
ing her, and she would perhaps spend the whole 
winter alone at the Villa Caterina. He was rather 
sorry for that; he was afraid that she might feel 
lonely. 

He suppressed a wish to write to her,, ostensibly 
to give her an account of Rodney’s wedding, but.in 
reality with the hope of eliciting some more precise 
information about herself. 

During his wife’s absence, Athelstan began secretly 
to make plans for getting rid of the lease of his 
house in Lancaster Gate. But he put off from day 


300 


ANNA NUGENT 


to day the unpleasant task of telling her of the im¬ 
pending financial catastrophe. 

The crash, when it did come, came very suddenly. 
It was in October, just when the first of the winter 
fogs had descended upon the city, impeding the 
traffic and wrapping all things in one immense acrid 
curtain. Athelstan was delayed one evening in get¬ 
ting back from the office, and he found his wife 
alone in the drawing-room when he came in. She had 
been reading, but the brightly-bound novel had fallen 
from her hand, and she was gazing indolently, 
dreamily, into the fire. 

The room was not only the picture of comfort, 
but it gave evidence of wealth and taste. The shin¬ 
ing, highly-polished furniture was of a costly antique 
kind. Mrs. Nugent was fond of “poking about” iq 
old shops, replacing modern or worthless pieces with 
what was genuine and costly. Those colored prints 
on the walls had formed part of Athelstan’s inheri¬ 
tance from his father; they were worth immense 
sums now. The carpets were Persian, and did not 
cover the entire surface of the beautiful parquet floor. 
Well, everything would have to go, and a big pre¬ 
mium could no doubt be secured for the valuable lease 
of the house with its fittings. Now that the blow had 
actually come, Athelstan felt almost cheerful about 
it. Anything was preferable to those long slow 
months of suspense. He would be a bankrupt of 
course, but he was sure he could eventually pay ten 
shillings in the pound, perhaps even a trifle more if 
they gave him time. His cheery optimism, his un¬ 
failing confidence in his own “luck,” supported him 
in the hour when things were at their worst. If he 
only hadn’t got to tell Juliet! . . . 

She looked up at him and smiled as he came into 
the room. 


FAILURE 


301 


“You’re late, Athelstan. And we’re dining out. 
Those tiresome Jones people.” 

“Oh, we can’t go in this fog, it isn’t worth risking 
the car. You must telephone.” 

Mrs. Nugent rang the bell and gave the order 
to the footman. Across the silence that followed 
they could hear the pealing of the telephone bell in 
the hall. 

Athelstan sat down near the fire and took an 
evening paper from his pocket. Secretly he was 
gathering courage to tell his wife. But it was dif¬ 
ficult to realize here, in this atmosphere of warmth 
and flower-scented comfort, that his vast fortune was 
in ruins. Everywhere as he glanced around he saw 
the long-stalked pink roses, with which his wife loved 
to decorate the room so that in winter it might pre¬ 
sent something of the aspect of summer. He had 
never wondered much about the price, but he could 
remember now that some of the florists’ bills had 
been exceptionally heavy. Thick silken curtains were 
drawn across the shuttered windows, so that the 
baleful fog was completely excluded. The little 
polished tables all displayed upon their shining sur¬ 
faces some costly silver or china ornament, some bit 
of old Chelsea or fine Oriental jar or tazza of gold 
luster. Juliet had never understood money, but she 
had a keen conception of what money could buy, 
and she always saw that hers fulfilled its sordid 
function. She was a materialist, though a fastidious 
one. 

“Michael tells me that Selvi has come into a large 
fortune through the death of an uncle in the States,” 
she said meditatively. “Isn’t that fortunate for little 
Anna? Somehow I never thought she’d make such 
a wonderful marriage—she was such a mousey little 
thing. But perhaps she knew it was coming.” 

She was glad to think that she had been kind and 


302 


ANNA NUGENT 


generous to Anna, and that they had given her a 
happy home after Temple’s death. Anna was a good 
little thing; she wasn’t likely to forget what she 
owed them. 

Athelstan didn’t answer. When he thought of 
Anna it was always with a definite regret that Michael 
hadn’t married her. He was so convinced that his 
son really cared for her, and had only accepted that 
painful, disagreeable mission to Sant’ Elena because 
he intended at the same time to ask her to be his 
wife. He had been quite prepared to receive a con¬ 
fession of Michael’s engagement on his return. And 
he would have liked it. He was fond of Anna. 
Still, he was glad to hear of her good fortune, and 
perhaps for her things had turned out for the best 
after all. ... 

He looked up from the paper and said laconically: 

“Dobson has failed.” 

“Dobson!” she repeated. 

“Yes. That young Dobson’s played skittles with 
everything.” 

He tried to make his voice sound careless, but 
Mrs. Nugent seemed to detect in it something that 
was not quite normal. She had her moments of 
unexpected, undisguised alertness, 

“But you’ve had nothing to do with Dobson’s for 
years,” she said, and the sentence held a faint note 
of interrogation. 

“Well, it doesn’t do anybody any good when a 
firm like that smashes up. It’s nearly as bad as a 
bank. It makes the city nervous. It shakes other 
people’s credit.” The statements dropped from his 
lips with a queer mechanical precision. 

“Well, anyhow it can’t shake you ” she said con¬ 
fidently. 

She gave Athelstan a long, close, searching look, 
and as she did so she perceived for the first time 


FAILURE 


3°3 


the change in him. Sitting there in the carefully 
shaded light of an electric lamp his hair looked quite 
gray, and his face was so thin that it had the ap¬ 
pearance of having fallen in. His eyes were averted, 
and as she looked at him his mouth gave a nervous 
twitch. 

“Is anything wrong, Athelstan?” she cried sharply. 

“Yes,” he said; “I always hoped to carry on for 
a few months longer, and perhaps something might 
have turned up trumps in the meantime. Though 
I’ve been in low water before, my luck’s always held. 
But now we shall go down with Dobson’s.” His 
voice was steady and level. He might have been 
discussing the affairs of a third person. 

She cried out sharply: “I can’t believe it. It 
can’t be true. Why, you’ve always been so rich! 
And only the other day you settled all that money 
on Rodney and Stella!” 

“Well, that didn’t do us any good,” he told her 
with a strange smile. 

“Why on earth did you do it then?” 

“Did I seem awfully keen about it?” 

“No. But I thought, and so did May, that it 
was because you didn’t care particularly for Stella.” 

“Well, I didn’t, if you want to know. But that 
wasn’t my reason. I knew it would only precipitate 
matters, but it was no good saying anything. There 
was still hope then, and it never does to let a hint 
of these things get about prematurely.” 

“Does Michael know?” she asked dully. 

“Yes, I was obliged to tell him when he came 
home from abroad. If he’d been here I think he 
would have taken a firm line with old Wendle. 
However, it’s too late to think of that now. We 
shall have to clear out of this in a few days.” 

“You don’t mean—you can’t mean—that you’ll 
have no money at all?” she cried. 


3°4 


ANNA NUGENT 


“I’m afraid, Juliet, that’s what I do mean.” 

“And you never gave me a hint—you let me go 
on spending, spending just as usual. I may be a 
fool about money, but I should have known I had 
to stop.” She looked at him reproachfully. 

It would take a little time to teach her to realize 
the poverty to which she would now be reduced. . . . 

She had not grasped it yet. It would have to 
come upon her little by little, with the gradual elimi¬ 
nation of everything that for years had lapped her 
in an otiose comfort. It was for her he was sorry, 
not for himself. He had lived a strenuous life, 
working diligently and industriously, with his brain 
full of projects, his days full of business. The 
luxury of his house had hardly affected him. It 
was his busy city life that had counted. 

“It will be a dreadful blow for the Wendies,” 
she said. 

“Well, it won’t hurt them,” said Athelstan, iron¬ 
ically. “They’ve made their bit out of us.” For 
the life of him he could not repress this touch of 
acerbity. Unconsciously, but very surely, they had 
contributed to his ruin. 

“You must make Rodney give us back a few hun¬ 
dreds a year,” said Mrs. Nugent. “After all, it’s 
our money he’s got.” 

“Stella will have something to say to that,” ob¬ 
served Athelstan, who of them all had been least 
deceived by his daughter-in-law’s artlessness. 

“I must write May. I must write and tell her 
at once. She’ll be dreadfully put out.” 

“It’s not a comfortable position for any of us. 
You realize, of course, I’m a bankrupt? The court 
will sell up everything to help towards paying the 
debts.” 

“Debts, Athelstan? I never knew you had any 


FAILURE 


30 5 

debts. I’m sure we have paid our bills regularly every 
month!” 

“I am speaking of the firm’s debts.” 

“They’ve got nothing to do with us. I’m not going 
to have my lovely furniture sold, Athelstan. It’s no 
use your thinking about it!” 

“Unfortunately it isn’t yours. It’s mine, and 
they’ll take it. Bound to.” 

“Then where shall we go? We can’t go on living 
here without the furniture.” She looked round the 
room, and he saw by the expression of her face that 
she was slowly beginning to realize what the failure 
of Nugent and Son would mean to her. 

“No, we can’t go on living here. You must give 
the servants notice to-morrow. We must clear out 
and go into cheap lodgings.” 

“Cheap lodgings! But I’ve never lived in cheap 
lodgings, Athelstan, and I’m not going to begin now. 
What would Rodney and May think of us? We do 
owe something to them.” 

Athelstan smiled, a grim little ghost of a smile 
that twisted his mouth slightly to one side. 

“My dear, I’m most frightfully sorry for you. 
I’ve done my best—ask Michael if I haven’t. I be¬ 
lieve if I’d only had a few more months I could have 
pulled tl^e old ship through. But Dobson’s smash¬ 
ing like this has simply knocked us out.” 

Mrs. Nugent took a frail lace handkerchief from 
a silk bag that lay on the table near her, and applied 
it to her eyes. 

“You are cruel, Athelstan—you should have 
warned me. I should never, never have pushed on 
Rodney’s marriage if I’d known it was going to ruin 
us all like this. If you’d given me just a hint-” 

“Ah, that’s just what I couldn’t do. A hint to any¬ 
one at that critical moment. . . .” 

“And to think of your being in the Bankruptcy 



3 o6 ANNA NUGENT 

Court,” she sobbed; “I never thought that could hap¬ 
pen to us. Such a disgrace—when we d been so sue- 

cessful ” } 

“My dear Juliet, let’s make the best of it. We ve 
got each other, and two of our children are happily 
provided for. Michael’s taken it most awfully well, 
considering that he goes down with the ship, poor 
boy ” 

“Oh, what a nity he didn’t marry Anna!” 

“He might have if you hadn’t whipped her oft 
abroad as soon as you suspected there was anything 
between them.” Athelstan could not restrain himself 
from mentioning the fact, for he had always thought 
there had been something almost cruel in her swift, 
drastic action. , „ . 

“They would have had enough to live on. Anna 
has a little income and the house, and Michael might 
have found work out there. He could have taught 
English. Lots of people manage to live in France 

and Italy by giving English lessons.” 

“There’s no question now of his marrying Anna. 
She is engaged to a very rich man she 11 have 
everything she can possibly want.” t 

“I’m glad for darling little Anna’s sake. It s so 
dreadful to be poor—to go bankrupt and sell all 
one’s beautiful furniture.” t> 

“Yes, it’s pretty awful for you, Juliet. I m fright¬ 
fully sorry. I wish it could have been averted.” 

“I expect if the truth’s known you did something 
very reckless and imprudent. Ching-Chang always 
said Nugent’s was much too much of a one-man show 
after Mr. Patton’s death. He didn’t like it, either.” 

Athelstan colored a little at the disclosure. That 
Chingford should have criticized him adversely 
roused within him a deep inward anger. He had done 
a great deal for his son-in-law, advancing him a large 
sum of money which had never been repaid. 


FAILURE 


307 


“Chingford will have to pay up now,” said Athel- 
stan. “I haven’t had a farthing of interest from him 
for two years. A touch of the law won’t hurt him.” 

“Dear Athelstan, how vindictive you are! I’m 
sure he was right, and it would have been much better 
if you’d had a strong capable partner, who could 
have brought money into the firm, instead of Michael. 
You’ve had too much on your shoulders, and then 
you never consult anyone. It’s often made me 
anxious, especially after Ching-Chang drew May’s 
attention to it.” 

It hurt Athelstan to know that his relations had 
criticized him, at a time, too, when he was giving 
them substantial help and working up to the collar 
to keep things going as usual. 

“The War hit us,” he said. “And Patton died 
before we’d properly recovered. It was only by 
giving my close personal attention to everything that 
I’ve managed to stave off disaster so long. And I’m 
afraid a squint at our books wouldn’t have en¬ 
couraged even a fool with capital to come in!” 

Mrs. Nugent rose. 

“I shall pack up my jewels to-night and leave them 
at the Bank in the morning,” she said. His words 
had roused her to one of her rare moments of ener¬ 
getic action. 

“One moment, Juliet.” He stretched out a detain¬ 
ing hand. “Pm afraid you mustn’t do that. We 
shall have to prove they were yours, you know. We 
can’t remove anything.” 

They stood and faced each other. Then she said 
very quietly: 

“Athelstan, would it help you if I gave them up?” 

“I’m afraid either way you’ll have to sell them. 
They’d buy an awful lot of bread-and-butter.” And 
again his mouth gave that odd sideways twitch. 

She went up to him and took his hand with a spoil- 


ANNA NUGENT 


308 

taneous gesture of affection so rare with her that he 
nearly broke down. 

“Athelstan, I’m very sorry for you. I know how 
hard you’ve worked and all you’ve done for us. But 
as you say, we’ve got each other.” 

She could look back across twenty-nine years of 
matrimony, could remember his unfailing kindness 
to her, his eager spontaneous generosity, his dislike 
of denying her anything that she wanted, either for 
herself or the children. And in this sudden light that 
revealed his qualities so clearly, she saw herself as 
both selfish and supine, a woman who took all and 
gave as little as possible in return. He owed, as 
she was dimly aware, something of his ruin to her 
extravagance, and to the ceaseless demands of his two 
younger children, yet no murmur of reproach had 
ever passed his lips. The little gray, insignificant 
man who had cut no figure in that society into which 
wealth combined with a pretty, successful daughter 
had launched her, was at that moment something 
of the hero he had been in her eyes when she first 
married him. And looking back across the years, she 
was obliged to acknowledge that as far as she was 
concerned, he had left nothing undone. 

“I want to thank you now for all you’ve always 
done for me, Athelstan,” she whispered. 

They kissed each other, and then she went softly 
out of the room. She wondered why she was feeling 
it all so little. Perhaps it was because the sudden 
revelation of the disaster had stunned her. But per¬ 
haps too it was because in the universal shipwreck 
Athelstan had been spared to her. She saw now, 
with an almost bewildering insight, that he was after 
all the one person who counted for her in all the 
world. 


FAILURE 


309 


3 

“If you ask me,” said Gay, “it serves them all 
jolly well right!” 

She and Mrs. Phipps-Moxon were spending a few 
days at Genoa before sailing for New York, and 
they had motored over one afternoon to visit Anna 
at the Villa Caterina. 

Anna had received the melancholy news from 
Michael on the preceding day. Finding herself alone 
with Gay, as Mrs. Phipps-Moxon had gone up to 
the Villa Selvi, she told her what had happened. 

The autumn wind was moaning with a kind of 
sustained melancholy in the trees outside, and the sea 
rushed crisply against the rocks with a regular, mo¬ 
notonous, thudding sound. The Bay was cut across 
with lines of snow-white foam that were clearly visible 
in the twilight. 

All day the sirocco had been blowing, making the 
air damp and warm, and bestowing a kind of sickly, 
restless, feverish feeling upon those who were sus¬ 
ceptible to its influence. 

“Oh, Gay. . . said Anna, reproachfully. 

She had not seen Gay for two months, and it was 
a very prosperous-looking person who now sat in 
front of her beside the cheerful fire of aromatic olive 
logs. Daintily clad and daintily shod and enveloped 
in a thick soft fur coat she presented a very plausible 
imitation of Mrs. Phipps-Moxon. 

Less than ever did Anna understand her, her 
sharpness, her bitterness, her complete lack of pity. 
The thought of the terrible misfortunes which had be¬ 
fallen the Nugents, involving Michael in the general 
ruin, would, she thought, have evoked some expres¬ 
sion of compassion even from their enemies. 

“I only wish I could have seen May’s face when 
she first heard it!” said Gay, remembering the little 


ANNA NUGENT 


31° 

scene long ago in the school room at Lancaster Gate. 
“How did you hear?” 

“I had a letter from Michael.” 

“I suppose it will affect him?” 

“Oh, yes, he’s quite ruined,” said Anna. 

She could hardly bear to think of. Michael now. 
She longed to be able to say something to comfort 
him. . . 

“When do you expect Benny back?” inquired Gay. 

“Early in the year, most likely,” said Anna. 

Selvi had been gone for nearly three months. 
Business in New York had detained him, and his 
letters showed that he was fretting to get back to 
Anna. Anna had learned to live in the present; she 
accepted the reprieve in a spirit of thankfulness. 

Benny had tried in vain to persuade Anna to marry 
him before he left Italy. His mother had joined in 
those entreaties, but Anna was firm,, even obdurate. 
In the end he went alone, and the winding-up of his 
uncle’s estate having proved unexpectedly compli¬ 
cated, he was still detained in New York. No one 
in the family had suspected that Countess Selvi’s 
brother had made such a large fortune; he had been 
gone for many years, and as little.had been heard of 
him he had been regarded as unsatisfactory and some¬ 
thing even of a rolling stone. Nor had there been 
any particular reason why he should have made 
Benny his heir in preference to his other nephews and 
nieces. However, it now transpired that he had be¬ 
come a Catholic shortly before his death and had 
wished to leave the bulk of his money in Catholic 
hands. 

All those months, Anna had been trying to love 
Benny and had failed. Absence, it is said, tends to 
make the heart grow fonder, but Benny’s absence 
produced within her only a sensation of profound re¬ 
lief. It wasn’t, she used to tell herself, that she 


FAILURE 




didn’t like him. It was just that she couldn’t bear 
the thought of having him eternally there. That 
was why she dreaded to hear that the date of his re¬ 
turn had been fixed. He wouldn’t be likely to let her 
keep him waiting much longer when he did come. 
Sometimes she used to think: “If he’d only fall in 
love with someone over there!” But he was very 
faithful and constant, almost painfully so; there was 
no hope or fear of that. . . . 

And just as she had conscientiously tried to love 
Benny, so had she endeavored to forget Michael. But 
the one thing seemed as impossible of achievement 
as the other. It would have been easier perhaps, she 
sometimes thought, if Michael had never stayed at 
the Villa (Katerina, had never associated himself inti¬ 
mately with her life there. There was no place in 
the garden that did not touch her memory with some 
poignant association. And now after months of 
silence, his letter had taught her how deeply she was 
affected by the family reverses. Because they touched 
Michael, they touched her too. It seemed as if she 
herself were involved in that ruin and shipwreck, and 
that if Michael suffered she must suffer with him. 
And strangely, too, she did not wish to stand outside 
as if it did not concern her. She wanted to share 
in his adversity. That was why Gay’s careless “It 
serves them all jolly well right” had jarred so upon 
her. 

“So you backed the right horse after all, Anna,” 
said Gay, suddenly. “You were always extraordi¬ 
narily lucky. There’s Michael now without a sou, 
while Benny’s fortune is almost fabulous.” 

She looked at Anna with something of envy. Even 
the things she hadn’t passionately wanted and hadn’t 
particularly cared about had a knack of turning up 
trumps and investing themselves with solid material 
value. How odd of her to look so sad and melan- 


312 


ANNA NUGENT 


choly to-day, just as if the Nugents’ reverses were 
hurting her! . . . Why couldn’t she be content with 
her own immunity from loss, her own prospect of 
such wonderful gain? 

“I wonder you don’t go away for a bit, Anna. This 
place is all right in summer, but it’s the deadliest hole 
in winter. And you’re looking frightfully hipped. 
A change would do you good.” 

“Oh, I like being here,” said Anna. “I don’t want 
to go away.” 

^Waiting for Benny?” said Gay, satirically. 
“Well, I’m sure that must be very exhilarating.” 

She gave her a sharp, piercing glance which don- 
fused Anna. No one could have been more remote 
from her thoughts than Benny was at that moment. 
She was thinking only of Michael, and Gay’s sugges¬ 
tion that she should go away for a change had only 
set her wondering whether it would be possible to 
make a journey to London and see the Nugents . . . 
and Michael. 

Benny’s long absence had bestowed upon their en¬ 
gagement its final touch of unreality. His letters 
came regularly, almost by every mail, giving glowing 
accounts of all he was doing and enjoying. They were 
written in fluent Italian interpolated by a few words 
of English and American slang. Yet one little stiff 
letter from Michael was worth them all. 

“When do you sail?” she asked. 

“Saturday,” replied Gay. “I must say Mrs. 
Phipps-Moxon has been extraordinarily decent about 
this trip. She got me no end of clothes in Milan, 
and she’s giving me a good wage besides, although 
she only calls it pocket-money. I’ve always liked her, 
though she does get tiresome and nervous at times. 
People who want companions always do. Still, I 
mean to enjoy myself thoroughly, in spite of her.” 

Anna knew Mrs. Phipps-Moxon very slightly. 


FAILURE 


3i3 


She was a War-widow and was little older than Gay. 
She possessed one of those fortunes which seem fabu¬ 
lous, thus she could give her exactly the kind of life 
she liked—luxurious traveling, sumptuous hotels, 
quantities of frocks and furs and hats. The little 
villa seemed to shrink in comparison, and its homely 
comfort became a trifle commonplace. Gay was 
obviously thankful to have emancipated herself from 
its environment. 

“I wonder if we shall find Benny in New York 
when we get there,” she said carelessly. 

Anna started. A hope too fantastic to be put 
into words came into her mind. Once Benny had 
been, figuratively speaking, at Gay’s feet . . . just 
for a few months. Sometimes Anna had believed 
that his own feeling for herself had been a quiet, 
cool, reasonable thing, beside that ephemeral passion 
he had felt for Gay. But Countess Selvi had fought 
to rescue her son from the “adventuress” as she 
called her, and her influence had prevailed. An en¬ 
gaged girl . . . though one wouldn’t think it to look 
at her. Benny had drawn back, disillusioned and dis¬ 
comfited. But Gay had subsequently been restored to 
a certain measure of favor by her tactful support of 
his wish to marry Anna. She and Countess Selvi no 
longer disliked each other. Gay could nearly always 
make people like her if she chose. After she had left 
the Villa Caterina the countess had even been heard 
to speak highly of her as a very sensible, capable 
person. 

It had always seemed to Anna that Benny’s love 
for Gay—if indeed it had ever been love at all—had 
gone out like a quenched flame. He had subsequently 
developed an almost unreasonable dislike of her, but 
who could tell what might happen with another swing 
of the pendulum? Once she had deceived him, and 
he had turned to Anna as to some quiet, fragrant 


3 H 


ANNA NUGENT 


woodland flower blossoming in an innocent obscurity. 
But when he saw this new Gay, finished, elegant, the 
spoilt protegee of a rich woman, he might change 
once more. ... 

Presently Mrs. Phipps-Moxon came in to fetch 
Gay. It was getting late—they must be making their 
way back to Genoa. 

“Oh, Miss Nugent, I’m so sorry to hear this bad 
news about your cousins in London! I read it in the 
Daily Mail at Countess Selvi’s. She’s very much up¬ 
set about it, too.” 

“Yes, it’s very sad for them all. Michael says it 
was really owing to the War, and he thinks his 
father’s been splendid to carry on for so long.’’ 

Mrs. Phipps-Moxon raised her eyebrows slightly. 
She had come to a very different conclusion after 
reading the paragraph which had caused such agita¬ 
tion in the mind of Countess Selvi. But then no 
doubt Michael would make out as good a case as he 
could for his father. 

“The Wendies, too, will feel it very much,’’ she 
said, “especially so soon after Lady Stella’s marriage. 
I don’t think the firm could have been in any diffi¬ 
culties then, for I remember Lady Wendle telling a 
friend of mine that the settlements surpassed their 
wildest expectations.” 

“They would be sure to see to that,” said Gay, 
bitterly. 

“Did you say that Countess Selvi had read about 
it too?” Anna asked, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. 

“Yes. She showed it to me,” said Mrs. Phipps- 
Moxon. “I hope your money is all right, my dear?” 

“Oh, yes, it’s in very safe things,” said Anna. 

Gay left them alone together on some pretext of 
going out to look at the view from the terrace for the 
last time. When she had gone Mrs. Phipps-Moxon 
said: 


FAILURE 


3i5 

“I hope you don’t bear me a grudge for taking 
your dear friend away? She’s a charming girl and 
I’m so fond of her. But anyhow I suppose she would 
not have stayed after your marriage?” 

“O'h, no,” said Anna. “Still I’ve missed her very 
much,” she felt obliged to add. 

“I’m sure you must have. By the way, I think 
you had better go and see Countess Selvi soon about 
your cousin’s affairs. That notice in the paper has 
rather upset her. And you, of course, will have 
heard exact details from Mr. Michael Nugent.” 

“Michael hasn’t told me anything except that the 
firm’s failed, and that his father’s a bankrupt. Of 
course it’s dreadful for them. They are absolutely 
ruined,” said Anna, sadly. 

“Mrs. Nugent will feel it very much. I always 
thought hers was one of the most charming houses 
in London. And it will be a great shock for poor 
little Lady Stella.” 

Gay came back into the room. “It’s beginning to 
rain. I think the seaside is horribly melancholy in 
winter, don’t you?” She turned to Mrs. Phipps- 
Moxon. “It’s all right in the summer when one can 
bathe and boat.” 

“Oh, Miss Nugent will find a great difference when 
she gets to Villa Selvi,” said Mrs. Phipps-Moxon, 
with a smile. “One hardly hears the sea at all, and 
then there’s that wonderful garden.” 

“Don’t you think we’d better start? It’s such a 
dark evening,” said Gay, helping her on with a 
sumptuous fur coat. 

Already Anna could see that Mrs. Phipps-Moxon 
was beginning to lean upon Gay. Gay would like 
that. She was always good-tempered when she 
fancied herself indispensable and could have things 
her own way. And it was clear that she meant to 
have things very much her own way. 


316 


ANNA NUGENT 


But when Gay kissed her good-bye, there was 
nothing but relief in Anna’s heart to feel that this 
chapter of her life was ended. 

She had long ago forgiven her for the part she had 
played in separating her from Michael, but it had 
been impossible after that episode to return to the old 
terms of frank and intimate friendship. 

She wondered if Gay would see Benny in New 
York. . . . 


CHAPTER XVI 


BROKEN OFF 


I 


DY STELLA was in tears. Sitting on the bal- 



cony of a hotel overlooking a lovdy autumnal 
scene of Italian lake and mountain, her blue eyes 
were dim, and her nose had become pink under the 
stress of emotion. 

It was Rodney’s fault, of course—it was always 
his fault when she cried. He wanted to go home, 
and she was equally determined to spend the winter 
at Cannes. And as they were going to that horrible 
India in February, she did think she might have some 
say as to where the intervening months were to be 
spent. 

Rodney looked on unmoved. He had been 
married nearly three months, and he was bound to 
acknowledge that Stella’s tears no longer touched him 
to remorse as they had once done, nor could they 
convince him, as they used to do, that he was the 
most selfish and unfeeling of men. 

He did not answer, and at that moment a slight 
diversion was caused by a knock upon their sitting- 
room door. A waiter appeared carrying a number 
of letters and papers, which he handed to Rodney 
and then withdrew abruptly. 

“Anything for me, Rod?” said Stella from the 
balcony. 

“Yes. Here are yours.” He went through them 


ANNA NUGENT 


318 

hastily. There was one from May addressed to 
Stella, and idly he wondered what women could find 
to write to each other about, with such frequency and 
at such great length. 

He examined his own correspondence. There was 
a letter from Michael—a thing so unusual as to pro¬ 
duce an odd sense of misgiving in his mind. He 
put the rest aside and opened his brother's letter. 

“My dear Rodney: I am sorry to have to write 
and tell you such awful news, but things in the City 
have been going from bad to worse lately and we 
haven't been able to weather the storm. Dobson’s 
failed the other day, and that made matters quite 
hopeless. I know you will believe father did every¬ 
thing he could to avert the catastrophe. But Nugent 
and Son have failed, and I’m afraid there's only the 
bankruptcy court in front of him. We are practically 
ruined. . . .” There was a good deal more, but this 
was sufficient for Rodney. He dropped the letter 
and his face became a ghastly white. 

Suddenly there came a little cry from the balcony: 

“Oh, Rodney—May’s written to tell me that your 
father’s lost all his money and is a bankrupt!” Her 
wide blue eyes were full of dismay. “Isn’t it horrible? 
Do you think it’s really true?” 

“Yes. It’s quite true. I’ve just heard from old 
Michael.” 

“How perfectly appalling! Does it mean that you 
won’t be so very rich after all?” 

It was one of those shrewd, apparently artless 
speeches which Stella did occasionally fling at her hus¬ 
band to his dismayed surprise. 

“Mummy always told me I should be frightfully 
rich if I married you!” she added almost resentfully, 
as if she had somehow been cheated. 

“It won’t hurt you, if you mean that,” said Rod¬ 
ney, with a note of anger in his voice. 


BROKEN OFF 


3 i 9 


The big blue eyes were raised reproachfully to his. 
“Cross?” she asked. 

Rodney couldn’t bear that. She wasn’t quite such 
a baby as she looked, but it was much safer to treat 
her as one. He kissed her and said: “No, I’m not 
cross, you darling child. But this is rather a knock¬ 
out blow.” 

She wasn’t made for rough weather, and he must 
help her through this storm. 

All the time he was realizing that his father must 
have made a final immense sacrifice for him, in order 
to enable him to marry Stella. Of course he had had 
no idea that there was anything wrong with 
“Nugent’s.” When he had first returned from India 
his mother had been flinging money about just as 
usual, buying every foolish expensive novelty that 
took her fancy, and perhaps never using it or looking 
at it again. “Oh, that absurd old thing!” she would 
say a month later. He found a likeness now between 
her and Stella. And how had his mother borne it 
when forced for the first time to envisage her own 
penniless condition? But it was his father s fault 
he should have had the courage to tell her the truth, 
to warn her that they were riding for a fall. 

And then the sight of Stella’s beautiful little tear- 
stained face taught him how difficult, nay how im¬ 
possible, it was for a man to make a disagreeable 
revelation of the kind. Men were cowards,^ he 
realized bitterly, before their wives. They ruined 
themselves in pleasing them, in keeping the truth 
sedulously from them. Why, he’d no more dare tell 
Stella if anything were wrong, unless, as now, dis¬ 
closure was inevitable! . . . He knew the procedure 
so well if he attempted even in minor things to “put 
his foot down.” She would cry—he couldn’t bear to 
see her cry—and threaten to return to her mother. 
And he could imagine Lady Wendle sternly and cen- 


320 


ANNA NUGENT 


soriously intimating that he was a brute to torment 
his little bride. They would all condemn his rough 
masculine methods. 

“Well, it’s much better it should hurt them and 
not us,” said Stella presently, regaining her com¬ 
posure as she brought herself to regard this brighter 
view of their misfortunes. “For after all if it is any¬ 
one’s fault it’s your father’s, Rod. And then old 
people don’t need so much money as young ones, 
they can’t want to enjoy themselves in the same way. 
I always thought your mother was fearfully over¬ 
dressed considering her age. Mummie thought so 
too.” 

Rodney swallowed this with some difficulty. That 
“darling Mummie of Rodney” business had com¬ 
pletely deceived him. 

“But it’s horrible having poor relations,” continued 
Stella. “I know, because we’ve got some, and they’re 
a constant worry to poor Papa, especially when 
they’re ill or are going to have operations. You must 
promise me not to send any of our money to your 
people, Rod.” 

“Well, they’ve given us a pretty good lot,” he said. 

“They should have warned us it was going to 
happen. Papa wouldn’t have insisted upon proper 
settlements then—he would have broken off our en¬ 
gagement in all probability. I never intended to 
marry into a poor family. And you all seemed so 
terribly rich!” She sighed. 

Rodney’s face was so pale and stern that his like¬ 
ness to Michael was curiously emphasized. 

“And would it have made any odds?” he de¬ 
manded. 

“Of course,” said Stella. “They all knew I 
couldn’t do without money.” 

He was aghast at the revelation. Looking back 
he felt that he had almost been coerced into marrying 


BROKEN OFF 


321 


Stella. He had fallen in love, not very seriously, per¬ 
haps, his feeling for her had had nothing of the 
young passionate ardor he had felt for Gay Lawton. 
But there had been May at hand with her cool, 
“Stella’s getting awfully keen about you, Rodney,” 
and then perhaps, “Lady Wendle’s rather wondering 
what you mean to do.” And there had also been 
Mrs. Nugent’s gushing, “Stella would make you 
such a darling loving little wife. . . . She’d help you 
on too—she’s got influential relations everywhere.” 

“I’m beastly sorry, then,” he said, his face stiffen¬ 
ing. He did not trust himself to say more then, but 
went out of the room and shut the door with sig¬ 
nificant decision. It was hateful to think that his 
money had counted; he had made so sure that Stella 
had cared. He remembered when May had first 
told him that Stella was keen about him, he had felt 
as if he had been caught in a trap. But he was very 
devoted to her now, and her words had sunk sword- 
pointed into his heart. 

He walked down to the post-office and sent a tele¬ 
gram to Michael saying that he was returning to 
London immediately. No tears and entreaties, 
should, he decided, affect this resolution. The tie of 
blood was stronger than he had supposed, for now his 
sole thought was to hasten home and associate him¬ 
self with the misfortunes of “Nugent’s”—he, who 
for so long had shared abundantly in its prosperity. 

2 

Some days after Gay’s departure with Mrs. 
Phipps-Moxon, Anna was sitting writing in the loggia 
when Countess Selvi was announced. It was a bril¬ 
liant November morning; all traces of the recent 
storm had vanished, and there was a delicious autumn 
quality in the air, cool, vigorous, bracing. 


322 


ANNA NUGENT 


Anna rose and went toward her. It was unusual 
for the countess to visit her in the morning, and for 
some days owing to their respective engagements the 
two ladies had not met. Now Anna could see at once 
that Countess Selvi was extremely perturbed. Her 
hat was on a little awry, and she bore all the signs of 
having dressed carelessly and in a great hurry, and 
perhaps, too, under some peculiar stress of emotion. 

It almost seemed from her manner that she was 
irritated at finding Anna outwardly so calm and com¬ 
posed. . . . People who had such awful things hap¬ 
pening in their family had no right to look like 
that. ... 

The astonishingly early hour at which she had ap¬ 
peared, combined with her pale, distraught, and agi¬ 
tated aspect, convinced Anna that something must 
be very seriously amiss. And as the countess’s whole 
being was wrapped up in that of her son, it was 
natural that she should immediately conclude that 
something untoward had happened to Benny. 

“Oh, what’s the matter?” cried Anna, quickening 
her footsteps and taking the countess’s hand in her 
own. “Is it—is it—Benny?” 

She led her to a chair. There was something quite 
filial and tender in her manner. “Do tell me what it 
is,” she murmured coaxingly. 

“Thank God, it has nothing to do with Benny, ex¬ 
cept of course indirectly,” said the countess. “At 
least it hasn’t got anything to do with him yet and I 
trust it never may have. But my dear child, you 
don’t know what’s happened? You haven’t seen the 
English papers? You haven’t heard from any of 
your cousins?” 

Anna shook her head. She was beginning to feel 
extremely puzzled. “Do tell me,” she said brightly. 
There was a smile on her face. The smile exasper- 


BROKEN OFF 


323 

ated the countess more than she would have liked to 
confess. 

“Then you don’t know that your uncle—Mr. 
Athelstan Nugent—has been arrested in connection 
with the failure of the firm?” 

“Arrested?” For the moment Anna could hardly 
believe that she had heard the word aright. Arrested. 
. . . Uncle Athelstan? The letter she had received 
from Michael about a week ago had told her only of 
financial failure; there had been nothing then to sug¬ 
gest culpability or fraud. Her heart sank, and now 
her face was paler than Countess Selvi’s. 

“I can’t believe it! It can’t be true. There’s some 
mistake,” Anna found herself saying. 

“Oh, there is no mistake, as you will see when you 
read the papers! Large sums are unaccounted for, 
and it seems he must have appropriated them to his 
own use. It is a terrible thing—and such a dis¬ 
grace! . . . To think that Benny!—And the same 
name too-!” She looked at Anna. 

Anna was too much stunned to grasp the exact sig¬ 
nificance of these apparently irrelevant ejaculations. 
Her only clear thoughts were centered around the 
personality of Michael. Was he safe, or would he be 
incriminated with his father? She knew beyond all 
doubt at that moment that her heart was wholly 
Michael’s to take or break as he chose. 

“The disgrace!” cried the countess, bursting into 
tears. “And to think that my darling Benny-!” 

“Benny?” repeated Anna, mystified. “What has 

Benny-?” For the moment she believed that he 

must have lost some of his money in that gigantic 
failure. 

“He is engaged to a Nugent,” said Countess Selvi, 
gazing at Anna with pale, misty eyes. She was so 
distracted that she hardly knew what she was saying, 





3H 


ANNA NUGENT 


and Anna, perceiving this, readily exonerated her 
from all desire to insult her. 

Countess Selvi glanced at Anna almost with aver¬ 
sion. Of course it was in no way the girl’s fault, but 
still she was a Nugent, a near relation of this wicked 
swindler, and she was Benny’s fiancee into the bar¬ 
gain. And this man’s son had actually visited at her 
house, and she had formed quite a favorable opinion 
of him, had even been afraid that he might want to 
marry Anna himself. It was Gay Lawton who had 
relieved her of all anxiety by assuring her that there 
was nothing of the sort between them. What made 
it all the more trying was the fact that her son was 
now very differently placed as regards wealth from 
what he had been when he proposed to Anna. He 
was certain to be enormously rich in the near future, 
and might have made a far better marriage. Anna, 
in the countess’s eyes, was no longer good enough for 
Benny. Her name was stained with dishonor. Soon 
all England would be ringing with the Nugent trial; 
there would be photographs of the criminal, his wife 
and children, in all the papers. She sincerely pitied 
Lord Chingford and Lady Stella for having respec¬ 
tively married members of Nugent’s family. There 
was no help for it as far as they were concerned, since 
the marriages had actually taken place. But Benny’s 
marriage hadn’t taken place. How glad she was to 
think that Anna had so firmly refused to marry him 
before he went to the States. “When you come 
back,” she had said in her quiet determined voice, and 
the countess hadn’t tried after the first to overrule 
her. She had never cared to have things done too 
precipitately. 

But how passionately she wished at that moment 
that Michael had married Anna! Why had he stood 
aside in that supine English fashion and let her dar¬ 
ling Benny step in? Fool that she was, she had en- 


BROKEN OFF 


325 

couraged Benny every inch of the way! At first he 
hadn’t been at all in love with Anna—his mind was 
still too sore from that abortive miserable affair with 
Gay. 

She knew, too, that if she herself had not opposed 
it so passionately, Benny would have married Gay. 
And though one knew hardly anything about her, she 
had apparently no relations who could be prosecuted 
for fraud. . . . 

“A mother must think of these things,” said the 
countess, almost apologetically, for she saw by the 
flush that rose to Anna’s face that her words had 
gone home at last. “It is one’s duty. We have to 
think of the future. . . 

Anna drew herself up. She was to be associated 
then with the downfall of the Nugents. She felt 
more pride than shame, and her eyes rested squarely 
upon the countess’s ravaged face. 

“Do you want me to give Benny back his freedom? 
If so, he’s welcome to it, and you can write and tell 
him so!” 

She was angry too, with a white-hot anger that 
made her tremble. 

“Oh, Anna dear—you can’t possibly mean it? 
You don’t know what you’re saying. . . . Such a 
marriage as it would be for you!” The countess 
was shedding tears of relief. “How noble of you, my 
dear child!” 

She leaned forward and tried to clasp Anna’s hand, 
but the girl withdrew it coldly. She hardly heard 
what the countess was saying. She was thinking, 
“I’m free! I’m free! I can go to Michael. . . .” 
But aloud she only said in a cool proud tone: 

“I do mean it. I quite see how impossible it would 
be for your son to marry me now.” There was a 
hint of irony in her voice, and her glance was full 
of a sad, proud contempt. 


326 


ANNA NUGENT 


“I shall never dare tell him. I feel that he’ll never 
forgive me. It’ll break his heart, poor darling boy!” 

“You must show him how impossible it would be 
for a Selvi to marry a Nugent,” said Anna. She 
glanced surreptitiously at her watch, and wondered 
how soon she could start for London. She wished the 
countess would go away. There were things to be 
done—one couldn’t leave a house and household in 
five minutes. And she longed urgently to start. The 
thought of seeing Michael exhilarated her. To go 
back to him free! Once he had cared for her when 
she was not free. Would he still care? But she did 
not allow that thought to trouble her. She was free, 
and he must know it. She made a little prayer of 
thanksgiving. 

Then she took off the heavy diamond ring that 
Benedetto had given her, and handed it to his mother. 

“You’ll make it quite clear to him, won’t you?” 
she said, almost afraid even now that the countess 
would refuse to take her at her word, until Benny’s 
answer could be received. “He is absolutely free. 
We are both very differently placed from what we 
were when we first became engaged. I hope he will 
marry some other girl far more suited to him than 
I could ever be.” 

The countess dried her tears. “Oh, Anna, I can 
never thank you enough—you’ve shown a most won¬ 
derful spirit of self-sacrifice! I’m so glad too that 
you are able to see it all so clearly. Even if Benny is 
unhappy at first he’ll live to thank you. And I do 
hope, darling Anna, that your own little fortune is 
quite safe?” 

“Oh, I expect it is. But that doesn’t matter.” 

Countess Selvi looked at her with a kind of 
exasperated admiration. How calm she was, how 
unmoved. She almost envied her that tranquil accep¬ 
tance of misfortune. 


BROKEN OFF 


3 27 


“I hope you’ll really find it’s all right. Mr. 
Nugent seems to have been playing at ducks and 
drakes with other people’s money!” 

Anna flinched then. “We won’t condemn him 
beforehand/’ she said sternly. “I’m perfectly certain 
myself that he’s innocent. I know him so well.” 

But it hurt her to think of all the people who 
would necessarily be involved—Aunt Juliet, learning 
for the first time in her indolent pampered life what 
poverty could mean, robbed of the luxury that had 
been to her the dearest thing in the world; May, with 
her haughty pride, her contempt for “paupers”; 
Rodney and Stella so recently married; Michael. 
. . . But at the thought of Michael a great wave of 
pity invaded her whole being like a warm flood, and 
for the first time her iron self-control threatened to 
give way. She could see him so clearly, almost as if 
he had been standing in front of her, tall, with his 
slightly sharpened features, his grave steady look, his 
blue eyes that could be so stern and yet so tender, 
his smile, his smooth dark hair. 

“Mrs. Phipps-Moxon told me some days ago that 
she had heard very unpleasant rumors from a friend 
on the Stock Exchange,” said Countess Selvi, “so I 
wasn’t altogether surprised.” 

“Oh, did Gay know that too?” 

“I don’t suppose Mrs. Phipps-Moxon would have 
kept it to herself. And she’s very fond of Miss 
Lawton.” 

That was perhaps why Gay had said so vindic¬ 
tively: “If you ask me, it serves them all jolly well 
right.” She hadn’t really cared for Michael. She 
had wanted his money, and having failed to win him, 
—failing signally and utterly despite all her little 
plots and plans—she could rejoice now in the mis¬ 
fortunes that had overtaken him and his. 

Gay had gone. And Anna was to lose Benny, even 


328 


ANNA NUGENT 


as a friend. It was unlikely that her intimacy with 
Countess Selvi would continue. She thought of the 
rats leaving a doomed ship. But nothing of all this 
could touch or hurt her. She was free—she was 
going to Michael. Her heart gave a great leap at 
the thought. 

“Well, good-bye, my dear little Anna. And you’re 
in earnest? You really wish me to write to Benny?” 

As she spoke she slipped the diamond ring on to 
her own slim finger. She was surprised and annoyed 
to find that it was a little tight for her; she had always 
prided herself on her small hands. 

“Yes, I really mean it. I am quite serious.” 

The countess kissed her. 

3 

When Countess Selvi had gone, Anna went out 
into the garden. It was rather mournful now, for the 
strong, recent gales had beaten some of the chrysan¬ 
themums to the earth, and it was only in sheltered 
places that they lifted their stiff handsome heads, and 
displayed their white and pink and bronze hues. 
Some clumps of scarlet salvias made a patch of fire 
along the beds. A few roses were blooming on the 
terrace—scentless autumn roses, so different from 
the summer ones. 

Anna stooped down and mechanically lifted some 
of the chrysanthemums that had been so cruelly 
chastised by the autumn winds, and as she raised 
them she saw that their cheerful bright shaggy faces 
were all muddy and spoilt. 

Across the Bay the mountains were beautifully 
colored in softest tones of violet and dull gray-green, 
while here and there the bronze and gold of a chest¬ 
nut wood showed its brilliant autumn tints. Dark 
berries almost ready for plucking clustered on the 


BROKEN OFF 


329 


brave little olive trees. The sea was gray and silver, 
and a fleet of white-sailed fishing boats lay motion¬ 
less in the distance like poised, dreaming butterflies. 

Below her, as she stood on the terrace, Anna could 
hear the lisping, sucking sound of the sea as with a 
deep hidden swell it surged against the rocky promon¬ 
tory and the steps that were cut out of the tufa cliff. 

At first she was aware of no emotion but that deep 
sense of thankfulness that possessed^ her, body and 
soul. She felt oddly, strangely free, just as if fetters 
had actually been cut from her hands and feet. She 
told herself that she was no longer engaged to Selvi, 
that the prospect of his return home need no longer 
darken the thought of the future for her. He didn’t 
know it yet . . . but he was free. And she felt 
sure that he would be quite happy to be free. He 
had his full share of his mother’s pride, and he 
wouldn’t like to marry a girl whose near relation had 
just been arrested on a charge of criminal fraud. It 
might be that the countess would cable the news to 
him. She would surely lose no time in telling him 
that his engagement was broken off. Anna could 
only hope that she hadn’t shown herself indecently 
relieved at the thought of her own freedom. It was 
over, quite over, that hateful engagement, and she 
would never again savor that mingled remorse, 
humiliation and shame which had been hers ever 
since she had so rashly, so inexplicably, promised to 
marry Selvi. ... 

Then her thoughts turned to the terrible calamity 
that had incidentally contributed to her escape. But 
she had no wish to detach herself from it, to keep it as 
it were at a distance, as if the reverses of these 
cousins could not affect her. They affected her be¬ 
cause they so profoundly and intimately affected 
Michael. . . . 

She had learnt the kind of attitude the world 


330 


ANNA NUGENT 


would be likely to adopt toward the principal actors 
in the tragedy from Countess Selvi and more indi¬ 
rectly from Gay Lawton. Rats and the sinking ship. 
. . . Her own desire to participate in the shipwreck 
because Michael was there would only seem to them 
fantastic, quixotic. Yet to her it was a desire at 
once authentic and urgent. She wanted to start for 
London that very night. Michael might no longer 
wish to marry her—she deserved that for her faith¬ 
lessness to an ideal—but he would at least welcome 
her as the little cousin, the friend. . . . 

But she must not think of Michael now. It was 
the thought of him that took away her courage. He, 
with that fine and delicate sense of honor, must be 
suffering now so deeply, wounded to the death in his 
tenderest susceptibilities. . . . 

The wind rose a little, shaking the dark 
boughs of the pines, brushing their lustrous 
foliage delicately against the colorless sky. The 
surge of the sea made a deeper and more boom¬ 
ing sound. The great headland by Spezia was almost 
lost to sight in a driving, descending mist that fore¬ 
told rain. Everything was painted in sweet dim 
tones, misty grays and purples and dull blues and 
browns. The November landscape had a melancholy 
beauty that was all its own, and the scene looked 
scarcely less lovely than it had done in those gorgeous 
golden summer days when Michael had stood by her 
side under the noonday sun, or in those wonderful 
summer nights, heavily fragrant with the scent of 
jessamine and tuberose. 

“I’m free! I’m quite free! Michael, I’m quite 
free—” she said aloud. Her joy was almost child¬ 
like. She thought the wind must carry that message 
to him in England. But perhaps it was too late— 
perhaps he didn’t care. . . . 


BROKEN OFF 


33 * 


4 

When Anna arrived in London toward the close of 
a late November afternoon the winter dusk had al¬ 
ready fallen upon the city. The sky was quite clear, 
and the streets seemed full of that luminous purple- 
brown twilight which gives them at certain seasons 
of the year such an aspect of haunting mystery. 

It was many months since she had left London to 
embark upon that new life, but already she seemed 
to be divided from those former days, not only by 
great spaces of time, but by immense changes within 
herself. The life at Villa Caterina such as she had 
pictured it had crumbled into ruins. Gay, who was 
to have been her eternal companion, had left her with 
an eagerness that she did not try to conceal, and 
she herself had felt no regret but only relief at her 
departure. She had been engaged to be married, and 
the engagement was now at an end. She was as free 
as when she had left London, and yet she was more 
strongly fettered. She knew now that the old child¬ 
ish feeling she had had for Michael was a child’s love 
no more. It belonged to life and to eternity. She 
had learnt its value and proportion during these bitter 
months of unwilling betrothal to another man. 

Anna drove to a convent near the Oratory. 
Fortunately there was a vacant room, and she climbed 
the steep flight of narrow London stairs feeling rather 
tired, and battered by the long journey. She took 
off her hat, unpacked a few things, washed the grime 
from her face and lay down to rest. But it was im¬ 
possible to sleep. Her brain was oddly active, and 
the crowding thoughts that invaded it were like flocks 
of restless birds. 

It was nearly six o’clock when she rose, dressed 
herself, put on a dark hat and coat and drove to the 
address in Chelsea that Michael had given her. The 


332 


ANNA NUGENT 


taxi whirled her there in a few minutes, and she found 
herself standing beside a tall house close to the Em¬ 
bankment. She was feeling a little confused. The 
sustained roar of the traffic, that deep hoarse voice of 
London, never silent, never still, was a little bewilder¬ 
ing after the quiet of Sant’ Elena, yet she felt that 
it held a welcoming familiar sound that was not un¬ 
pleasant. 

She paid the driver, and then began slowly to 
mount the steep flights of uncarpeted stone stairs. 

The flat where the Nugents had taken refuge was 
at the top of the house and was small and rather 
miserably furnished. Michael had fortunately put 
by some sums of money from time to time and these 
were extremely useful to him now. He calculated 
that with care they might be made to last for some 
little while. He had an anxious desire that his 
mother should have everything she needed for her 
comfort, and it astonished him to find her in the 
main so indifferent. Adversity had aroused her and 
forced her to regard only the larger issues. She was 
completely obsessed by thoughts of the coming trial, 
and seemed to have no time or wish to dwell upon 
her own hardships. 

Anna knocked and rang, and the door was 
presently opened by Mrs. Nugent herself. 

“Anna!” she cried. 

She was more changed by her reverses of fortune 
than Anna could have believed possible. Her face 
was thinner and sharper, but her eyes were alert and 
had completely lost their old lethargic indolent look. 
She seemed almost an old woman. . . . 

“Come in, my dear child,” she said. 

Anna had not told them she was coming, and it 
touched her to see Mrs. Nugent’s pleasure. 

They stood facing each other in the narrow 


BROKEN OFF 333 

passage. Anna put her arms round Mrs. Nugent’s 
neck and kissed her. 

“Oh, Aunt Juliet, I’m so dreadfully sorry. I felt 
I must come.” 

Mrs. Nugent gave her a quick scrutinizing look. 
She wondered that the Selvis, mother and son, should 
have approved of this long journey for Anna at such 
a moment. She had imagined that they would prob¬ 
ably try to keep her apart and detached from the un¬ 
fortunate vicissitudes of her relations. For it wasn’t 
possible they didn’t know. Everyone knew. The 
papers were full of the failure of “Nugent’s.” 

“Your uncle’s here. He’s out on bail,” said Mrs. 
Nugent simply. 

She stated the fact without any palliation, but 
rather as if she did not quite believe what she. was 
saying. Then she added passionately: “He’s inno¬ 
cent—he’s innocent! Athelstan may have been a 
fool, but he was never wicked!” 

“Oh, I’m sure of that, Aunt Juliet. It’s all some 
dreadful mistake—everyone who knows him must 
know that!” 

She slipped her hand in her aunt’s arm, and they 
went along the passage to the door at the end. Mrs. 
Nugent pushed it open, and they found themselves in 
a small sitting-room which evidently served for 
dining-room as well. 

Athelstan was sitting by the fire. He looked up 
as his wife and Anna came into the room. 

“Why, it’s Anna!” he said. His face brightened 
visibly, and he held out his hand. “Awfully good of 
you to come, my dear child. Where are you stay¬ 
ing?” 

“At the convent,” said Anna. 

He was the more changed of the two. His hair, 
which had only just begun to go gray when she left 


334 


ANNA NUGENT 


London last year, had now become perfectly white. 
It gave him an aged look. He was pitiably thin, and 
his face had a restless, hunted expression. 

“I came—” she said hurriedly, “I couldn’t bear it 
—out there alone. You see, Gay had left me.” 

“Gay? Where’s she gone?” 

“To New York. She’s traveling with Mrs. Phipps- 
Moxon.” 

They talked in desultory fashion, their voices low 
and hushed, almost as if there had been a recent 
death in the house. Of the two Mrs. Nugent was 
far the more alert and rational. The shock had ob¬ 
viously unnerved Athelstan. If only—Anna thought, 
with a sharp pang of pain—he hadn’t looked so hope¬ 
lessly guilty! . . . 

“You’re not married yet, then, Anna?” said Mrs. 
Nugent. For the first time she remembered to speak 
of Anna’s engagement to Selvi. “What extraor¬ 
dinary luck for you, his turning out to be so rich.” 

“No, I’m not married,” Anna answered in a low 
tone. She hadn’t the courage to tell them the truth 
about that yet. She felt at the moment it might give 
them an added anxiety. 

“It’s all Patton’s doing,” broke forth Mrs. 
Nugent in a tone of irrepressible passion; “he died 
leaving everything in confusion!” 

“Lucky Patton,” said Athelstan. His smile was 
dreadful. Anna saw it with horror. 

The little scene possessed something of the in¬ 
tangible horror of a nightmare. It was a relief when 
the door opened and Michael came into the room. 

“Anna!” His face lit up for a second and then be¬ 
came very cold and stern. 

Anna rose and went toward him. She held out her 
hand and felt his hard fingers closing firmly upon it, 
but she did not dare look up and meet his eyes. Yet 
in that moment of meeting it seemed to her that all 


BROKEN OFF 


335 


doubt and difficulty had been swept away. She be¬ 
longed to Michael. No Benny or Gay could ever 
come between them again. 

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said sternly. 
“You should have stayed out there—in the sunshine.” 

Anna said simply: “I couldn’t keep away.” 

“Isn’t it sweet of her to come, so near the time 
of her wedding too?” said Mrs. Nugent, affection¬ 
ately. 

There was a little pause and then Anna said in a 
low tone: “I was just going to tell you. . . . I’m not 
going to be married after all.” 

Michael’s face was set and hard. He did not look 
at her. 

“Not going to be married? Oh, my dear, what are 
you saying? And it made me so happy to think you 
were going to marry such a rich man! And just 
when he’d inherited that immense fortune! It was 
almost like a fairy tale.” Mrs. Nugent’s voice was 
shrilly incredulous. 

Anna looked straight in front of her and said: 

“I’ve broken off my engagement.” 

Michael gave her a quick shrewd glance. 

“Oh, Anna darling, and I did so hope you were 
comfortably settled! And when he was so much 
richer than we all expected!” Mrs. Nugent began to 
weep as if this were indeed a culminating calamity. 

Michael said coldly: “Anna knows what is best for 
her own happiness.” 

His tone was critical, almost hostile, and the look 
he gave her chilled her. She turned to him and said : 

“I’ve been alone for some weeks at Villa Caterina. 
Gay has gone to New York with Mrs. Phipps- 
Moxon.” 

“How long shall you be in London?” 

“Oh, I shall stay some little time, I think.” 

“Yes, you mustn't go away yet. Not till after the 


ANNA NUGENT 


336 

trial,” said Athelstan, grimly. “You might be of 
some use to your aunt.” 

It was dreadful to hear him speak like that, as if 
the result of the trial were a foregone conclusion. 

“When it’s over,” said Anna, with a gallant con¬ 
fidence, “you must both come with me to Sant’ Elena. 
You know I’ve always longed to show it to you. 
Promise to come, Uncle Athelstan!” 

“I’ll come if they’ll let me,” said Athelstan, in his 
grim changed voice, and again Anna felt that little 
thrill of horror. 

She glanced at Michael. How could he bear it? 
But his face was cold and unmoved. She felt that 
she had come to the end of her own powers of en¬ 
durance. The hurried journey had chilled and 
fatigued her, and it was all so much worse here than 
she had expected. She got up rather quickly, kissed 
her uncle and aunt, and held out her hand to Michael. 
He only said: “I’ll come with you to the door.” 

In the passage he put on his coat, took up a hat and 
stick, and followed her without a word down those 
interminable flights of chilly stone stairs. 

Outside it was dark, and the London sky looked 
very black above the clustered roofs. A wind blew 
vigorously from the river. 

They walked along the Embankment for a little 
distance, going eastward, then Michael said: 

“Do you want a taxi?” 

“No, I’d rather walk.” 

Silence fell upon them. He seemed so tall walking 
by her side. Suddenly he laid his hand abruptly on 
her arm. 

“Anna, what on earth made you come? It’s awful 
—it gets more awful every day. And I’ve thanked 
God you weren’t here!” 

“I felt I must come.” 

“Because of all this?” 


BROKEN OFF 


337 


“Yes—I couldn’t bear to be so far away. I wanted 
to be with you all. In it.” She looked up now into 
his face, and her eyes were full of a brave courage. 

“It’s frightfully good of you, but I wish you hadn’t. 
Why, even May hasn’t been up—she says it would 
upset her to come. Rodney came, of course, but Stella 
wouldn’t. She’s in an awful rage about it all, and 
he’s miserable because she says she wouldn’t have 
married him if she’d had any suspicion. I hear she’s 
behaving like a little fury. She’s down with May 
now.” 

Anna walked a little faster. She felt that his calm, 
disciplined self-control was beginning to collapse. 

“Anna, what on earth made you break off your 
engagement to Selvi?” 

The words were out now, and she felt that they 
had been in his mind all the time. 

“His mother almost asked me to.” 

“Asked you to ? Because of all this ?” 

“Yes. You see—my name’s Nugent, too.” 

“It’s incredible! What brutes people are! Even 
good people.” 

“Oh, but you mustn’t think I minded, Michael. 
I’d known, you see, for ever so long, from the very 
beginning in fact, that I’d made a fearful mistake, 
and I didn’t know how to get out of it. I’m glad 
Michael. 

He received this in amazed and mystified silence. 
Never, never, so he now reflected, would he be able 
to begin to understand women. Even a simple 
straightforward girl like Anna. She had torn his 
heart in two by her engagement to Selvi, and now 
here she was assuring him she had known from the 
very beginning that she had made a mistake. 

Suddenly, he thought how lonely she must be. 
How t blank her future must seem if she ever en¬ 
visaged it. Without Selvi—without Gay. 


338 


ANNA NUGENT 


“And Gay to go off like that! Surely she could 
have got out of her job and remained with you just 
through the winter!” 

“She was glad to go. I felt like a sinking ship!” 
said Anna, smiling. 

“Ah, thank God you don’t sink with us,” said 
Michael. 

“But I’m a Nugent, too,” she whispered. 

“You’re outside all this, though,” he said. 

She stopped and looked up into his face. 

“I don’t want to be outside.” 

Michael stopped too. They were in one of Chel¬ 
sea’s littlest, loneliest streets. By the light of an 
electric lamp he could see Anna’s face, pale but some¬ 
how glowing. Her eyes were shining; she looked 
strangely alive and intensely happy. 

He said abruptly: “You must be outside. But it 
was very good of you to come. You’ll go and see 
them again, won’t you? I’m not able to be there a 
great deal myself—I’ve got a job all day. But I go 
when I can. It was just a chance my being there to¬ 
night. You must cheer them up, Anna.” 

They walked in silence to the busy Brompton Road 
with its lights, its stir of traffic, its crowded pave¬ 
ments. The Oratory stood up massive and pale, its 
dark dome etched purple against the night sky. They 
could see the Statue of Our Lady leaning forward a 
little as if she were holding out her arms protectingly 
over London—this London that once had loved and 
honored, and now had almost forgotten her. 

“Let’s go in for a moment,” said Anna. 

They entered the great church. At the far end 
the light before the Tabernacle burned and glowed 
in the warm, incense-laden dusk. They knelt down, 
and presently as she was praying Anna felt that 
Michael had risen and left her side and gone quietly 
away. . . . 


CHAPTER XVII 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 


I 


NNA saw very little of Michael in the sad winter 



-LV weeks that followed her arrival in London. 
They were dark wet weeks, the rain and fog alternat¬ 
ing with raking blizzards and blinding snow that 
swept the land. In the country it was beautiful, with 
the fields and hills garmented in that sparkling white 
pall that seemed to be guarding cozily and tenderly 
all the wonderful spring growths that were already 
beginning to push up tender green spikes through the 
brown earth. No spring is perhaps ever so sweet, so 
worth while, as when it follows an ice-bound winter of 
deep snow and prolonged cold, for then all its sweet¬ 
ness seems to have been honestly earned, and the joy 
of it comes almost as a reward for the patient, painful 
waiting. . . . 

But in London the snow was soon smudged and 
stained by passing traffic, and afterwards it lay along 
the side of the streets in discolored mounds, waiting 
to be carted away. It retained its pristine whiteness 
for such a short time, and then it made the city look 
squalid and almost degraded. 

The physical discomfort was great, but Anna 
scarcely seemed to feel it. She went often, some¬ 
times twice a day, to the little flat in Chelsea, generally 
seeing only Mrs. Nugent. Quietly she contrived that 
there should always be coal for the fire during that 
bitter weather, and she took with her many little 
luxuries in the way of food, sometimes preparing them 


339 


340 


ANNA NUGENT 


with her own hands as in the past old Francesca had 
taught her to do. In these ways she felt that she 
could still be of use, even if—as became daily more 
apparent—Michael didn’t want her there at all. If 
he came in to find her sitting with his mother, he 
generally made some excuse for an abrupt inevitable 
departure. He avoided her, and especially he was 
careful never to see her alone. 

She longed to talk to him. There was so much 
that she wanted to hear, which he alone could tell her. 
But his face seemed to be determinedly set against 
any possibility of a revival of their old intimacy. He 
was purposely strengthening the barrier between 
them. Only on that first night of her arrival, his glad 
momentary surprise at seeing her had taught her that 
he was not yet wholly indifferent. Otherwise she 
must have believed that whatever love he had once 
had for her was dead. It had been wounded almost 
to the death, as she well knew, the day she had made 
confession to him of her engagement to Selvi. Per¬ 
haps in that bitter moment of disillusionment some¬ 
thing of his long love had failed forever. . . . 

It was painful to her to meet this cold stranger 
whose face never brightened at her approach. His 
manner made a kind of constraint between them, and 
Anna was enough of a Nugent to feel chilled by it 
and to fall back upon reserve and reticence. Indeed 
she only remained in London because Mrs. Nugent so 
obviously needed her. She made up to her in ever 
so slight a degree for the defection of May. During 
the interminable proceedings before the magistrate, 
ending always in “bail as before,” Anna always 
stayed with Mrs. Nugent, comforting her through 
those weary anxious hours, until her husband returned 
with Michael. She was shaken, anxious, often de¬ 
spondent; she seemed to cling to Anna. 

The news that they had all been expecting and 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 


34i 


dreading came one bitter winter’s day when a fierce 
north-east wind raked the London streets, and the 
lurid clouds menaced another fall of snow. Anna was 
there with Mrs. Nugent when Michael came in with 
his father. She was so much one of the family, had 
identified herself so completely and deliberately with 
them in their hour of adversity, that her presence was 
never considered superfluous. She had a right to be 
there, but not the full right which only Michael 
could have given her. This thought recurred to her 
now with an unusual bitterness. 

Athelstan looked blue and half-dead with cold. 
His sunken eyes had a restless, glittering, feverish 
look. Physically he was a complete wreck, and he 
leaned heavily on Michael’s arm. 

“Oh, Anna’s with you! That’s right,” he said, in 
a queer, trembling voice that was very unlike his old 
abrupt, kindly accents. 

“I don’t know what I should do without her,” said 
Mrs. Nugent. 

Michael stood there, his face like a stone mask 
and nearly as pale. He looked old for his years now; 
the boy had vanished forever. 

“He’d rather I wasn’t here,” said Anna to herself. 

She knew that he was suffering, and felt that her 
presence increased his pain. 

“We’re rather late,” said Athelstan feebly. “I’ve 
been committed for trial. It was rather a long busi¬ 
ness—the bail—finding sureties . . . such a big 
sum.” 

He sank back in his arm-chair by the fire. His 
wife went over to him and began to chafe his hands. 
He was submissive, in a dreadful, resigned, almost 
child-like fashion, inert, apathetic. 

Anna saw that Mrs. Nugent’s tears were falling 
thickly. Michael signaled to her to come out of the 
room. 


342 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Better leave them. You can’t do anything,” he 
said as he followed her into the passage, closing the 
door behind him. 

They stood together in the narrow hall, with its 
staring yellow glazed paper and buff-colored linoleum 
from which most of the pattern had been worn away. 

“You realize of course what this means?” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“Don’t you think you’d better go back to Sant’ 
Elena? You can’t help, and it’ll be an awful time for 
us all.” 

“Do you want me to go, Michael?” 

“For many reasons, yes. Particularly for your 
own sake. I hate to think of your being mixed up in 
anything so squalid. Why should you suffer through 
us? Look at May, how she keeps out of it! And 
Stella. ...” 

“They are nothing to me.” She lifted her head. 
“I feel that your mother wants me all the more be¬ 
cause May and Stella—both so much nearer to her— 
keep so resolutely away.” Try as she would to keep 
the bitterness from her voice as she uttered those 
words, she failed to do so. “And I think she likes 
having me.” 

“Of course she does. And it’s most awfully good 
of you to spend so much time with her. It’s made all 
the difference, I know. But we’ve no right to take it 
from you. I hate the thought of your sacrificing 
yourself like this!” 

“Don’t send me away, Michael,” she pleaded. “If 
those are the only reasons, let me stay. And ... I 
want to ask you something. ...” 

“Yes? What is it?” almost impatiently. 

“Who is going to defend him? He ought to have 
the very best. Someone we can rely upon to do all 
that’s humanly possible.” 

“We wanted to retain Chenevix, but we simply 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 


343 


can’t afford big fees, you know—it’s out of the ques¬ 
tion. . . . Rodney can’t help—his wife won’t hear 
0 f it—talks of chucking good money after bad. And 
May says much the same.” 

‘‘Then—let me—Michael-she said breath¬ 

lessly. 

“You ?” He looked down at her upturned beauti¬ 
ful little face, but his blue eyes never softened. 

“Yes. Let me help. I’ve got some money- 
more than I shall ever spend. And I’d rather spend 
it like that.” . ... , 

She looked up eagerly, but his expression chilled 
her. For the moment she thought he was bitterly 
offended at being offered money. 

“Do let me . . . Michael. . . . 

“Oh, that’s out of the question. We couldnt 
possibly accept it from you. It’s most awfully good 
of you all the same.” , 

“Michael—you can . . . you must! Dont re¬ 
fuse. ...” . 

He brushed his hand abruptly across his eyes. 

“But my dear Anna—it would mean thousands. 
We couldn’t in common decency take it from you!’’ 

She moved towards the stairs, and Michael 
followed her in a kind of stupefied silence. They went 
down into the street, and the rush of fierce keen wind 
blew savagely against their faces in greeting. It was 
so sharp that Anna felt it must almost have flayed 
her face. People were hurrying past, their faces 
bent a little, their coat-collars turned up to their 
ears. Women pulled their furs more tightly about 
their bare throats. , , ,, . .. ., 

Anna hated the cold; beneath the blast she wilted 

like a flower. 

“Are you wrapped up enough? Is your coat a 
thick one?” he asked solicitously. 

“Yes_I’m a mass of furs and wraps, she an- 


344 


ANNA NUGENT 


swered. She tried to smile, but the cold froze her lips 
so that she could hardly move them. Her cheeks felt 
stiff. 

“It’s arctic,” said Michael. “I’d rather you went 
back to Italy. You must hate it so here.” 

“I ... I couldn’t bear to be so far away,” she 
said. 

“What do you think of father?” 

“He looks very ill to-night.” 

“It’s killing him,” said Michael. 

“All the more reason why he should have the very 
best counsel money can buy.” 

“Oh, Anna—you mustn’t speak of that 

again. ... 

But before they reached the convent she had won 
her point. She waived aside all his objections one 
by one. She had even asked his advice about selling 
some of her securities. He hated it with all his 
heart, but always he could see before his eyes that 
little scene of his father’s return home to-night. His 
mother going across to where he was sitting so help¬ 
lessly, chafing his blue hands in tender maternal fash¬ 
ion, while her tears dropped thickly. ... It was 
the first time he had ever within his remembrance 
seen her cry, and the sight had a little unnerved him. 
All these weeks he had admired and felt astonished 
at her wonderful bright courage, and this little break¬ 
down had been all the more terrible and signifi¬ 
cant. . . . 

Yes, he hated the whole business, and almost he 
hated Anna for suggesting it, but for his father’s 
sake he gave in. Often the thought had tormented 
him, and he wished he had been more economical in 
the past so that he could have had the money ready 
for such an emergency. But the necessity for economy 
had never occurred to any of the family. 

Of course he would pay it back, in time. He 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 


345 


could work. He had immense confidence in his own 
energy and industry. And if he couldn’t get any¬ 
thing adequate to do in England he would emigrate. 
He was young still—he could start afresh, and work 
his way up, and in the end pay her back every 
farthing. 

But to owe anything to Anna even for a time 
seemed to him to be a subtle form of degradation. 
They oughtn’t to take advantage of her simple youth¬ 
ful generosity. 

“Anna, I don’t know how to thank you. It’s no 
good my trying. But it’s simply splendid of you. I 
hate taking it.” 

His thoughts were in confusion. Sometimes the 
conviction that she did love him in spite of all things 
would intrude like an unwelcome visitor, and he was 
angry with himself for entertaining it even in¬ 
voluntarily. 

They were in the quiet street where the convent 
was situated, and he stopped abruptly. The great 
trees in the gardens that faced the houses waved their 
boughs, like gigantic black arms, wildly in the gale. 
They tossed violently as if pleading for mercy even 
while they furiously resisted the onslaught.. 

“Oh, Anna, don’t stay in London,” he said; “go 
back to the Villa. Money—career—honor—we’ve 
lost everything. We’re bankrupt all round.” He 
turned away from her. It seemed to him that in 
that moment he tasted the whole bitterness of life. 
“You’re too young—go back to Sant’ Elena—forget 
me. ...” 

“So you really want to send me away?” she said. 
His passionate words had caused that dying hope in 
her heart to stir and flutter like a broken-winged bird. 
She was smiling, but the tears flickered frostily on her 
long lashes. “You mean to keep me outside, when 
I’ve shown you that I don’t want to stay there?” 


346 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Oh, my darling Anna, it’s too late! I love you as 
you know, but I’m not going to ask you to marry a 
ruined and bankrupt man.” 

“If you loved me, you couldn’t send me away,” she 
said, a little amazed at her own daring. 

“Are you telling me that you’d be ready to marry 
me now?” he said. 

“Oh, Michael, don’t be so slow of understanding!” 
Beneath the light mockery of her words there was 
a profound sadness. 

“Because it’s no use—no use at all, Anna. I 
couldn’t sacrifice you. I should be taking a wicked 
advantage of your youth and generosity. Don’t 
tempt me . . . don’t let us see each other. . . .” 

He seemed to tower above her in the cold, windy 
darkness. 

He knew now that Anna loved him, now when 
it was too late for him to marry her. He couldn’t 
let her make such a marriage—she was not yet twenty 
—she didn’t know what she was doing, nor what it 
would mean to link her young, fair, happy life with 
his stained and dishonored one. If the trial went 
badly—and in his pessimism he believed that it would 
—he never intended to see her again. But he dared 
not look into that future of disgrace and shame, as 
into some deep, untried abyss. Already he seemed to 
feel its chill darkness upon his face. 

“Good-bye, Anna. You’ve been very sweet—very 
kind. Forgive me.” 

She did not answer, and the hand she put into his 
at parting seemed mortally cold. 

She felt herself repulsed—it was like being cov¬ 
ered with a garment of hot shame. Convinced that 
his motive for refusing her love had been inspired 
by a sincere wish for her own well-being, she still 
doubted his love. If it had been genuine, surely it 
would have mocked at such barriers as those. For 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 


347 


in the main she had come to London to see him, to 
tell him that she was free, and yet he could only 
urge her insistently to return to Sant’ Elena. Per¬ 
haps her importunity had only made his present task 
a little more difficult and repellent. But loving 
Michael as she did, more deeply and profoundly than 
ever before, she realized with a despair that was like 
death, that he was not prepared to admit her to his 
ruined, broken, dishonored life. 

His coldness even in that passionate moment had 
stunned her. She felt as if he had flung her into the 
dust. He knew now that she loved him, she had 
made no secret of it, and he had sent her away. Her 
heart almost stopped beating with pain. This cold, 
strange, new Michael didn’t love her, didn’t want her 
any more. Grief had frozen him. 

2 

Anna went indoors and up to her room. She lived 
very penuriously at the convent, spending all she could 
spare on little comforts for Mrs. Nugent. She sel¬ 
dom allowed herself a fire in her room even in this 
bitter weather, and to-night it struck her as painfully, 
almost unbearably cold. The window could not quite 
keep out that fierce cutting north-easterly gale which 
had chilled her to the bone during her walk home. 

The other boarders, mostly elderly women and all 
much older than herself, were very kind to her, talk¬ 
ing to her at meals, trying to make her feel at home. 
She felt rather small and forlorn among them all, 
and she lived in dread too lest someone should men¬ 
tion the Nugent trial, which was on everybody’s lips 
in London just then. But perhaps they suspected 
she was a relation of the prisoner, since she bore the 
same name, so they refrained from mentioning the 
subject in front of her. 


ANNA NUGENT 


348 

Michael was as yet little known in Catholic circles; 
his conversion was so recent, and he was too busy 
a man. 

After that interview he kept scrupulously out or 
her way. The date of the trial was fixed, and some 
of the most eminent counsel in London had been en¬ 
gaged to defend Athelstan. Mrs. Nugent was calm 
again with a wonderful serenity, as if determined 
to try to imbue her husband with something of her 
own courage and confidence. It was not an easy 
task, for he was utterly shaken, but he would have 
been far worse, as she knew, if she had shown signs 
of breaking down. 

Anna had believed that Mrs. Nugent would col¬ 
lapse entirely beneath these overwhelming blows of 
an adverse fate, and it astonished her to see her so 
calm, even composed. She had splendid qualities, 
and calamity seemed to draw them to the surface. 
Sometimes one could see a likeness now between Mrs. 
Nugent and Michael. When anything went wrong 
they were like firm pillars of strength and fortitude. 

Stella was going to have a baby, Rodney wrote. 
She was ill, and wretched, and angry with everyone. 
Rodney had sent in his papers, feeling he could no 
longer face his old friends in the regiment, and also 
because Stella had now definitely refused to go to 
India. She was determined to remain with her 
mother until the event was over, and Rodney found 
himself scarcely welcome there. He stayed a great 
deal with May at Wakebourne, only going occa¬ 
sionally to Somersetshire to see his wife. It was 
evident that his marriage was a very unhappy one. 

Anna was sitting in her room one afternoon when 
a lay-sister came up to tell her that Countess Selvi 
was waiting to see her in the parlor. The informa¬ 
tion astonished her, as she knew that the countess 
had not been in England for many years, and always 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 


349 


spoke with an especial horror of the English winter. 
Besides, she could think of no adequate reason that 
could bring her to see her in the present moment of 
harassing anxiety. It could not be that she was the 
bearer of some message from Benny—some intima¬ 
tion that he did not want the freedom Anna had so 
thankfully handed back to him ? . . . 

Feeling a little perturbed, she hurried down to 
the parlor. But on opening the door she saw, instead 
of Countess Selvi, a tall and very fashionable figure 
heavily enveloped in costly furs. 

“Gay!” she exclaimed, in surprise. 

She paused on the threshold. They looked at each 
other across the dreary little room. 

“They told me it was Countess Selvi,” said Anna, 
bewildered. 

“Well, l am Countess Selvi!” said Gay. 

The change in her, inaugurated when she started 
upon her travels with Mrs. Phipps-Moxon, now 
amounted to a positive transformation. With her 
beautiful clothes, her furs and jewels, her soigne 
polished appearance, she was very different from the 
Gay of old days who with her careless haphazard 
methods had produced such charming, unstudied re¬ 
sults. 

“I don’t understand . . . ,” said Anna. She al¬ 
most doubted the objectivity of the vision that con¬ 
fronted her. 

“You darling old goose, I see you’ve got your 
head as much in the clouds as ever! Don’t you 
understand I’ve married Benny? We met him in 
New York almost as soon as we got there, frightfully 
disconsolate at your chucking him—(why on earth 
did you do it, Anna, when he’d just come into that 
huge fortune?) Still I managed to show him that 
it was really a blessing in disguise considering all 
that had been happening on this side.” She said 


350 


ANNA NUGENT 


this with a little edge of malice in her voice. ‘‘You 
can’t think what a perfect dear Ellen Phipps-Moxon 
has been over the whole thing. One does want a 
little influential help at such times, you know, Anna, 
and that’s what you were never able to give me. 
And Benny’s really been in love with me all along, 
only that horrible old mother of his made mischief. 
However, we’re on our way to Sant’ Elena now to 
have a reconciliation. She’s no choice, because 
Benny’s his own master now, and can do as he 
chooses.” 

She leaned back in the high, uncomfortable chair 
and crossed her feet, displaying fragile silk stockings 
and tiny dainty shoes. 

“Oh, Anna, don’t think me a pig and all that, 
but it is lovely having lots of money at last! I 
suppose I’m a materialist, for I’d rather have it than 
anything. You’re not ambitious, I know; you’ll 
always be quite content to stop at Villa Caterina just 
carrying on. Still, you were a little fool not to stick 
to Benny. Michael’s ruined, I suppose, so you’ve 
fallen between two stools.” 

“When were you married, Gay?” asked Anna. 
She had so often heard Gay abuse both mother and 
son with emphatic eloquence, that it seemed scarcely 
credible she should actually have married Benny in 
the end. 

The whole reason for that trip to New York 
seemed to stand out quite clearly. 

“Oh, it must be three weeks ago—it seems an 
awful age. Still I’m very happy. Benny’s rather a 
priceless person when you get him quite away from 
his mother!” 

“Shall you live at the Villa Selvi ?” 

“My dear child, why on earth should I live in 
that deadly hole? No, we shall leave it to dear 
Mamma, and Benny and I have bought a lovely place 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 


35i 


at Florence to begin with, and later I think we shall 
have something in Venice as well. We’ve really 
hardly got going yet, you know. But I’ve put my 
foot down quite firmly on the subject of the old 
countess living with us. No joint establishments for 
me, thank you! You know the Italian idea—all 
living under one roof and no room to breathe.” She 
laughed. “Congratulate me, Anna. I’m in luck— 
I’ve pulled it off this time, haven’t I?” 

“Indeed you have,” said Anna, still confused. 
“But how did you find me? How did you know I 
was in London?” 

“Oh, Benny heard that from his mother, and I 
wrote to Villa Caterina for your address. What 
made you come over here, Anna? Why did you 
mix yourself up in these horrible, dismal, degrading 
happenings? Why, even I felt quite ashamed that 
I’d ever known the Athelstan Nugents, and I pity that 
miserable little Stella with all my heart.” 

“I am not at all ashamed—I am only very, very 
sorry for them all,” said Anna, coldly. “That was 
why I came—to show my sympathy. I am certain 
that poor Uncle Athelstan is innocent—it will all 
come out at the trial.” 

“The trial? Has he been committed for trial, 
then?” said Gay, suddenly sobered. 

“Yes. It’s to begin next week.” 

“But you don’t mean to say you’re going to stay 
here for it, when you might have been living quite 
quietly at Villa Caterina, and hardly anyone would 
have known you were even connected?” 

“I’d rather be here,” said Anna, stubbornly. 
“Michael did want me to go away.” 

“How’s he taking it?” 

“He—he is just the same.” 

“Yes, he was always a cold fish,” said Gay. “I 
used to think he was in love with you, Anna, as 


352 


ANNA NUGENT 


far as he could be in love with anyone, though you 
always swore he wasn’t. However, you 11 never be 
able to marry him now, and I suppose you knew that 
when you chucked Benny.” 

“No, I shall never marry him now,” said Anna, 

quietly. . 

“Isn’t it funny to think how things change? said 
Gay. “They’re poor now, and I’m rich. I, who 
wasn’t good enough for their precious son, am Coun¬ 
tess Selvi with a rich husband and every mortal thing 
I can possibly want! Someone told me that girl he 
married is leading him an awful dance. And the 
haughty May—she must feel the family reverses.” 
Gay seemed to take an especial and undisguised de¬ 
light in this contemplation of the Nugents’ discom¬ 
fiture. She felt she could meet Mrs. Nugent on more 
than equal terms now, and perhaps cut her and 
May. ... c 

Her point of view, not untouched by a spirit of 
revenge, was incomprehensible to Anna, who could 
never be long angry with anyone. As well might 
she herself bear a grudge against Gay for the part 
she had deliberately played last summer in separating 
her from Michael. At the time, it is true, she had 
felt indignation and anger and a strange hurt help¬ 
lessness as if someone had bound her cruelly with 
chains. But that condition of mind had swiftly 
passed; she had freely forgiven Gay, and could look 
back upon the episode without bitterness. 

Indeed, everything that had happened last summer 
had become strangely remote and unimportant in com¬ 
parison to the terrible events that were now pending. 
She bore her part in that suffering,. but always she 
had the old feeling that she was waiting for Michael, 
and in this period of anxious incertitude, of fiery 
probation, she felt that her soul was expanding, 
learning new lessons of fortitude and patience and 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 353 

complete confidence. She felt too that she could bear 
uAr ° n ^ * n enc ^ Michael came back to her. 

Of course the old countess was frightfully sick 
about our marriage/’ continued Gay, whose mind 
was far more occupied with her own brilliant acces¬ 
sion to wealth than with the Nugents’ reverses. “I 
knew she would be, and that was why I got Ellen 
Phipps-Moxon to persuade Benny to let it take place 
111 New York. It was so difficult to get him to be 
manly and independent and not think whether his 
tiresome mother was going to object or not. But 
now she can cry and rage as much as she likes, she 
can t undo it, and no one knows that better than she 
does!” 

J ou ’ re so . ha PPy> Gay,” said Anna. 

Well, as for that it’s not deliriously exciting, you 
know, but it’s the best chance I’ve ever had, and I 
shall manage somehow if I can only keep Benny away 
from his mother for a bit. And I like being Con - 
tessa! Sounds better than Mrs. Nugent, doesn’t it?” 
She laughed airily. Then rising she came close to 
Anna and said: “I will say this for you, Anna, you’ve 
been jolly decent to me. You gave me a home when 
I hadn t anywhere to go, and if you hadn’t done 
that I should never have met Benny. I know the 
countess calls me a climber and a schemer and various 
other things. It s all very well for people who’ve 
always had a roof over their heads and lots to eat 
to talk like that, but they shouldn’t judge those who 
haven’t had the same advantages, so harshly. Now 
I’m going to make a confession, Anna, because I 
know you’re too much of a saint ever to give me 
away. I did try to marry Michael last summer— 

I knew he was in love with you—he as good as told 
me so—but I got him to believe that you were in 
love with Benny. And it wasn’t only ambition—I did 
like him, more than I ever liked Rodney. There 


354 


ANNA NUGENT 


was something about him different from other men. 

I felt I should always be happy with him—yes, and 
good too. He seemed to expect more of one, some¬ 
how. And he hadn’t really got charm—he was too 
stiff and cold and stern for that. I should have 
married him if he’d asked me, and if I’d been a poor 
woman with him to-day I don’t believe I should have 
minded.” She made the avowal quite simply and 
seriously. “I’m sorry for all that’s happened, when 
I think of Michael. And if you see him you can 
tell him so.” 

“I don’t think I shall see him,” said Anna. Gay’s 
words were echoing in her ears. Something about 
him different from other men. ... So different in¬ 
deed that only Michael, poor and bankrupt as he 
was, could ever satisfy Anna’s own heart-hunger. . . . 

Gay was very grave and serious now, and some¬ 
thing of its lost sweetness had come back to her 
face. She looked almost beautiful with that softened 
look darkening her eyes. 

“Now I must be going or Benny will wonder what’s 
become of me. I told him I was coming to see you.” 
Gay stooped and kissed Anna with something off her 
old affection. 

Anna went with her to the door. The sky was 
nearly black, and a few faint stars pierced its dark¬ 
ness. The trees in the gardens beyond were almost 
motionless to-night, and made patches of thick 
shadow, brown and purple and sombre black. 

Gay got into a sumptuous car that was waiting 
in the road and drove away. She leaned out a little 
and waved her hand. Anna waved hers in answer. 
She was glad to have seen her, and it gave her a 
feeling of happiness that these two friends of hers 
should have thus come together. There was a cer¬ 
tain risk about it, for Gay seemed to have deliberately 
“married for money”; still she had apparently liked 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 


355 


Benny very much indeed at one time, and there was 
no reason why he should not revive that old affection 
in her. 

But her visit had made Anna feel restless and 
unsettled, as if she were waiting for something that 
would never come. 


3 

As the trial proceeded in those bleak bitter Febru¬ 
ary days, it was noticed by many of those who at¬ 
tended the court daily that the prisoner’s health 
seemed to be failing. No longer did he sit there 
taking interminable notes, listening eagerly and 
alertly as he had done at first to the mass of evi¬ 
dence, so full of financial technicalities. He sat there 
idly now, a little gray man, inert, apathetic and 
shrunken, whose physique had undergone a visible 
change for the worse since the commencement of his 
terrible ordeal. 

Michael was always in court. Each day he was 
allowed to see his father for a few minutes. But 
they could have no private talk, and the interviews 
were extremely painful to them both. It was a relief 
to them to know that Mrs. Nugent was with Anna. 
She had not been very well, had been suffering from 
her heart. The doctor told her to avoid all emotion 
and excitement as much as possible. 

Michael had hardly seen Anna of late. But one 
Sunday night as he was going into the Oratory he 
met her on the steps, and stopped to speak to her. 

“Do you often come here?” he asked. 

“Yes—every day. To pray for him . . . so many 
people are praying for him—nuns and priests. Oh, 
I’m sure it will come out all right!” 

Michael felt less assured. Humanly speaking 
there seemed to him little hope of things going well, 


ANNA NUGENT 


356 

although the defense undoubtedly grew in strength 
from day to day, as further details of the late Mr. 
Patton’s transactions were brought to light. 

But his faith in the efficacy of prayer was not less 
than Anna’s and the thought of her prayers consoled 
him. They entered the church together and knelt 
down side by side. 

It was difficult for him now to believe in the reality 
of those beautiful weeks he had spent last summer 
at Sant’ Elena. They stood out in his remembrance 
like an illuminated interlude of wonderful sunshine, 
full of flowers and fragrance, with the wash of water 
against the cliffs, the light on sky and mountain. . . . 

Anna there, growing dearer to him every day. 

But it only increased his suffering now to have 
her here in London. He loved her for her beautiful 
daily attendance on his mother, achieved, as he dimly 
guessed, at much personal sacrifice. But he would 
rather have known her in the peace and sunshine of 
the Villa Caterina. . . . 

The music soothed him. As he knelt there he 
realized more fully than ever before, all that the 
Church could mean to the sorrowful. Her touch 
that gave fortitude as well as consolation, strength 
as well as help. In his great need now he prayed, 
and something of his black anxiety seemed to fall 
away. 

As they came out he said: “I’m going to see 
Father Denham. Did you know he was in London ?” 

“Yes. I saw him last week. He seemed a little 
better. He’s praying for us too, Michael.” 

He walked as far as the convent with her, not 
speaking. Then he wrung her hand and walked 
abruptly away. 

It was a long walk to the house where Father 
Denham was staying. But the February night was 
fine, almost warm; there was a soft southerly wind 


COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 357 

blowing. One could fancy that spring was not fat- 
off. 

“Well, how are things going?” was the priest’s 
greeting. 

“They think it’ll all be over by Wednesday,” said 
Michael, guardedly. He never dared tell himself 
that there was any hope. 

“Did Miss Nugent tell you that she’d been to see 
me?” 

“Yes. I saw her in the Oratory to-night; she told 
me then.” 

“I want to talk to you about her,” said the priest, 
in a very kind, friendly voice. 

Michael’s face was stern and frozen. 

“What do you want to say about Anna?” he asked. 

“Only that I’m sure she’s very fond of you.” He 
watched him as he spoke. 

“Oh, there’s nothing in that. She’s devoted to 
us all. You see she lived with us for some years 
when she was a child. I haven’t liked to let her 
do all she’s insisted on doing for us now.” 

“But I want to talk to you about what you can 
give her—do for her,” said the priest, gently. 

“Give her? There’s nothing I can give her. I 
can only take, and that goes most horribly against 
the grain. She’s been a perfect angel sitting with 
my mother—giving up all her time to her—insisting 
upon bearing the burden of the costs. . . He 
stopped. 

“I didn’t of course know that,” said Father Den¬ 
ham; “she wouldn’t be likely to mention it. But 
Michael, has it never occurred to you why she was 
so unhappy in her engagement to Selvi?” 

“I imagine it was because she didn’t care for him. 
His mother was very anxious for it—she over-per¬ 
suaded her.” 


358 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Nor why she was so happy when it was broken 
off?” pursued the priest. 

“She was glad to be free.” 

“Yes, but why? Michael, vou told her once that 
you loved her.” 

“Yes.” 

“And don’t you love her now?” 

“I’m not in a position to love anyone. I’m not 
going to ruin her life, if you mean that. Anna must 
forget me. She’s very young. In a year or two she 
will have forgotten me—she will be thankful that 
she went back to Villa Caterina a free woman.” 

“Then you don’t see you are ruining her life?” 

Michael was silent. He remembered Anna’s face 
as he had seen it that evening, bent in prayer and 
adoration. Never had he been so aware of her other¬ 
worldliness. He didn’t think that temporal things 
disturbed her much. Like all devout Catholics she 
possessed that hidden interior life which passing 
events could neither touch nor affect. It placed her 
almost on another plane. 

“She has never said a word to me,” continued the 
priest, “but I am certain that she loves you. Your 
silence is breaking her heart.” 

“I think you are mistaken, Father. Anna and I 
have always been friends, but I’m sure she doesn’t 
really care for me in any other way. Just now— 

with her beautiful pity-” He broke off; he could 

remember the look in her uplifted face in the dark 
windy street. “She wouldn’t surely have said she’d 
marry Selvi if she’d ever cared for me. And I don’t 
wish to marry her now. I am not going to ask her 
to share my ruined life and disgraced name!” 

He looked straight in front of him as he spoke. 
It had been so hard not to tell her this evening that 
whatever happened they must not be separated. So 
hard to be cold and brutal, and leave her abruptly, 



COMMITTED FOR TRIAL 359 

lest he should speak of his love against his better 
judgment. ... 

“At least give her the choice,” said Father Den¬ 
ham. “Don’t let your pride—it is only pride, 
Michael—stand in the way. You two were made 
for each other. It would be a holy, happy marriage 
for you both.” 

“It is far better for her to forget me. She’s very 
young—she isn’t twenty. In a few years—whatever 
her feelings may be now—she’ll be grateful.” His 
tone was hard. 

“I don’t think she will forget or feel gratitude. 
Michael—have a little pity on her.” 

Michael still stared in front of him. He couldn’t 
believe it—wouldn’t believe it. He had renounced 
her, deliberately, voluntarily, even while his love for 
her tormented him. 

“I think you are making a mistake. Anna is kind 
—affectionate—quixotically generous. All her life 
she’ll help lame dogs over stiles—it’s her way. 
She’s been a perfect dear to my mother. But there’s 
nothing else. Nothing at all—at least for me.” 

“Then you won’t speak to her?” 

“How can I? Father—I’ve been fighting against 
it all these weeks. Don’t ask me to give in now. 
I think when the trial’s ended she’ll go back to Italy. 
And who knows if she and Selvi-” 

“There’s no chance of that,” said Father Denham, 
dryly. “I’ve seen Selvi—he’s in London now. He’s 
on his honeymoon.” 

“On his honeymoon? Then he’s married? bather 

_you’ve roused my curiosity! Whom on earth has 

Benny married?” 

But in spite of all things the news was an immense 

relief to him. ni . „ , , . 

“Why, Miss Lawton of course. She followed him 



360 


ANNA NUGENT 


out to New York with her friend, Mrs* Phipps- 
Moxon, and they fixed it up there/’ 

‘‘You do astonish me!” said Michael. 

His face wore a clearer look. 

“It’s a very good match for her,” he said pres¬ 
ently. 

“Yes. Has she seen Miss Nugent?” 

“Anna didn’t tell me.” 

“It’ll be lonely for Miss Nugent going back to 
Sant’ Elena quite alone.” 

“It’s possible, you know, that my mother may go 
with her. But we don’t like to think of that—it 
would mean something too dreadful. Don’t try to 
persuade me, Father—I’m not thinking of myself. 
I’m thinking of her. . . 

He knelt for the priest’s blessing and then went 
away. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


NOT GUILTY 
I 

I T BECAME daily more apparent to those who 
followed the singular maze of evidence—some 
of it almost incomprehensible except to the expert 
in figures and finance—that, far from being guilty, 
Athelstan Nugent was a deeply wronged and inno¬ 
cent man. 

The defalcations were of old standing; they dated 
from the first year of the War. Those immense 
sums which had been skilfully borrowed had been 
borrowed by Patton and used for his own ends. Had 
he lived it became obvious that he must have stood 
now where Nugent was standing. Each day further 
corroborative evidence in support of this theory was 
brought to light and was dealt with in the masterly, 
deadly, ingenious fashion for which Sir Horace 
Chenevix was famous. 

It became apparent also that Nugent had done 
all he could since his partner’s death to save the 
firm; he had advanced large sums of his own, had 
worked hard and made personal sacrifices, to pull 
the concern together. During Patton’s life-time he 
had always played a subordinate role. He had been 
content to leave things in the hands of the older and 
more experienced man. Thus he had had little to 
say in the actual management of affairs until Patton’s 
death—that sudden and culminating stroke which had 
revealed so many appalling irregularities to him. 
Athelstan had always been cheerful, hopeful, 

361 


ANNA NUGENT 


362 

optimistic, and certain of his own capacity to pull 
things round—only give him half a chance! Let 
Europe return to her normal pre-War conditions, and 
he could soon get things going as well as ever. But 
as it takes time to rebuild and reconstruct a devas¬ 
tated city after an earthquake, so wounded and bleed¬ 
ing and stricken Europe could not at once resume 
her ancient activities, her international traffic and 
trading. Her tortured and unnerved sons and 
daughters could not at once return—and perhaps 
never with the old ardor—to the occupations that 
had been theirs before that mighty ploughshare razed 
her fair lands and her old and beautiful cities. The 
continued deterioration of trade, so marked during 
the years that immediately followed the Armistice, 
struck the death-blow to Athelstan’s hopes. 

Research showed him that Patton had not only 
borrowed public money entrusted to the firm for 
investment, but he had systematically falsified the ac¬ 
counts and balance sheets. He was a very able man 
with figures, few people indeed could manipulate 
them so cleverly, so convincingly as he could. No 
one had discovered anything, and Patton had died 
with the secret still safe in his own keeping. 

It was difficult for Anna to follow it all; she was 
so unversed in the technicalities of finance. The long 
summaries of the trial that were published in all the 
papers perplexed her. But she followed the speech 
for the defense with passionate interest. In its clear, 
cold logic it seemed to open a path, illuminated with 
sunshine, across which Athelstan Nugent would surely 
go at last, a free man. ... 

There was a sudden outcry in the Press in his 
favor. The man had been so obviously a catspaw. 
Tie had been a pawn in the hands of Patton. People 
remembered Patton; and one or two trivial but un¬ 
scrupulous actions of his, brought to light since his 


NOT GUILTY 


363 


death, were revived and published. Furthermore, it 
was fully established that in his own quixotic efforts 
to save the firm Athelstan had lost every farthing he 
possessed. 

In spite of all this and of the gradual swerving 
of public opinion in his favor, Michael saw the jury 
return from what had seemed an almost interminable 
deliberation, with a sense of despair almost un¬ 
touched by hope. During the trial he had so often 
studied the faces of these men upon whom his father’s 
fate ultimately depended. There was one who 
listened to all the witnesses with a calm, incredulous 
smile. Another had a face that suggested he would 
always remain unconvinced by argument. Another 
was a mere boy with a weak chin. In almost every 
face his morbid imagination seemed to detect some 
trait that would tell against Athelstan in the end. . . . 

A mist came before his eyes; he could hardly see 
his father standing there, looking pitiably small and 
defenseless beside the gigantic and burly warder. 
Were warders always chosen—so his thoughts irrele¬ 
vantly ran—in order that they should make the pris¬ 
oner look as mean and insignificant a creature as 
possible—to divert any sympathy that might other¬ 
wise have been felt for him in his hour of crying 
need? And yet in that now erect figure with the 
white face and burning eyes, there was something 
of nobility—a calm envisagement of a lost and hope¬ 
less cause. Michael felt rather than saw his heroic 
effort to hold himself very erect, to face his accusers 
without fear. 

The usual formal question was put—the question 
to which so many thousands of unhappy beings have 
listened with sick suspense, and dumb, secret terror. 

And then the answer rang through the court, in¬ 
cisive, emphatic: 

“Not guilty, my lord ...” 


ANNA NUGENT 


34 

Everyone pressed forward to look at the prisoner, 
now a prisoner no more. Somewhere—far back in 
the court—there was a subdued murmur of applause, 
a faint clapping of hands. Athelstan turned his face 
in the direction of where his son was sitting. Michael 
was smiling triumphantly. He could not have spoken 
then; there was a lump in his throat that choked 
him. He had a horrible fear of breaking down here, 
in public, shamefully, for all men to see. 

Then he heard a cry from the dock. 

“Michael. . . ” 

Athelstan Nugent uttering that cry fell forward. 
He would have fallen to the ground if the warders 
had not held him up in their strong arms. But the 
limp, flaccid figure seemed to slip from their grasp, 
to give way beneath them. There was a little thud. 

An immense confusion reigned for the space of 
a few seconds. One woman shrieked, another sobbed, 
a third was carried away fainting. A doctor was 
almost instantly in attendance, for the suspense and 
shock of those culminating scenes of a trial have 
often exacted a bitter toll from the physique of those 
principally concerned, and skilled medical help is 
always at hand. 

Michael pressed forward to where his father was 
lying. But no medical help could avail Athelstan 
Nugent now. His heart, weakened by the long sus¬ 
pense and ordeal of the trial, had failed suddenly. 

Michael was clasping a dead man in his arms, and 
he felt his tears falling upon his father’s face. Fan¬ 
tastically almost, it seemed to him that Almighty 
God had confirmed the verdict of man; had granted 
release to the prisoner. 

“Not guilty. . . N 


NOT GUILTY 


365 


2 

The dramatic ending of the Nugent trial was a 
nine days’ wonder in London, and a great deal or 
sympathy was shown to the dead man’s wife and son. 

Although it was only in its final phases that the 
trial had made any sentimental appeal to the public, 
there was a general consensus of opinion that the 
prosecution of Athelstan Nugent had been wholly 
arbritary and mistaken. 

Michael was haunted by the vision of that gray, 
shrunken, pallid figure in the dock. Sometimes he 
had seemed to be watching a stranger to whom he 
longed nevertheless to offer some sign of compassion 
and sympathy. Was that really his father? And 
then he would see the figure fall forward, heavily, 
inertly, so that even as he watched he. realized that 
death had come to offer its final absolution, and bring 

its order of release. ♦ 111 

When the funeral was over, it was settled that 
Mrs. Nugent should go out to the Villa Caterina 
with Anna, who had begged her to consider this 
project. Mrs. Nugent was crushed and overwhelmed 
by the sudden blow that had befallen her, and she 
seemed to welcome the thought of journeying out 
to the sunshine and the South with Anna. Her 
children were all in London when this was decided. 
May had come up with Ching-Chang for the funeral, 
at which Rodney was also present. The family was 
once more reunited. The meeting between Mrs. 
Nugent and May was especially poignant. 

“I couldn’t help it, mother,” she sobbed; 1 did 
want to come up before but Ching-Chang wouldn t 
let me. It was an awful business for him to raise 
that money he’d borrowed, and he was so cross about 
it.” She looked pale and beautiful in her deep 
mourning. 


366 


ANNA NUGENT 


When they went back to Devonshire Rodney ac¬ 
companied them. He was not wanted at the 
Wendies’. Stella declared that she was perfectly ill 
from all the horrors that were happening in the 
family, and as Rodney only reminded her of them 
he’d much better go and stay with May. After all, 
the Nugents were his relations, not hers. She never, 
never wanted to see any of them again. “I’ve been 
let in,” she had sobbed as he was going out of the 
room, and the words rang in his head all the way 
up to town. He was miserable, and he could almost 
envy Michael’s grief. Grief for the dead seemed 
such a wholesome, simple emotion, it did not stab 
one like this bitterness of a perished love. 

When Mrs. Nugent said, “How is Stella, Rod¬ 
ney?” he only answered, “She is pretty well. She 
didn’t feel up to the journey though in this cold 
weather,” and wondered if anyone could possibly be 
deceived. Sometimes he felt that there could be no 
outcome to his marriage but a judicial separation. 
Stella seemed to hate the sight of him. 

It was a relief to them all to know that Anna 
was so very anxious Mrs. Nugent should return to 
Sant’ Elena with her. It was such a comfortable 
solution of the problem. 

“Why’s she doing it, do you think?” Lord Ching- 
ford inquired of his wife when they were in the train 
on their way back to Devonshire. 

“Oh, you know she’s always been in love with 
Michael since she was quite a little girl. Mamma 
was quite nervous about it at one time!” 

“Well, he might do worse. Jolly good-looking 
girl. And she’s got some money too, hasn’t she?” 

“Not much—he’d want more than that now,” said 
May. 

Michael was the only one who showed any dislike 
to the proposed plan. They had already accepted 


NOT GUILTY 


367 


so much from Anna that to take anything further 
seemed to him insupportable. But in the end his 
anxiety for his mother’s welfare prevailed. In that 
quiet sunny retreat he felt that she would recover 
something of her old tranquillity. 

Besides, her financial affairs were in such a condi¬ 
tion that the problem of her future was sufficiently 
urgent. Even the tiny, uncomfortable flat in Chelsea 
was beyond her means, and Michael was not in a 
position to keep it up for any length of time. Rodney 
and May contributed what they could, though it 
seemed to Michael that these sums were trivial and 
absurd in comparison to those they had received from 
their father. 

He went to the station to see the departure of 
the travelers. Mrs. Nugent was almost cheerful at 
the thought of the journey. 

“It’s most awfully good of you, Anna, he said 
gratefully, when they were left for a moment to¬ 
gether. “I can never thank you enough.” 

“But I hate being thanked.” She smiled brightly. 

He thought she was looking more than ever beauti¬ 
ful to-day with that faint tinge of color in her cheeks 
that were so pale as a rule, the brightness of her fair 
hair under her black hat, her dark gray eyes softened 
and shaded by the black lashes. 

“I’ll work hard. I shall soon be able to make a 
home for her. Just at first you know it isn’t so 
easy, but I’ve got something to begin with.” 

It was only a subordinate position in a city office, 
just the kind of thing he most hated, but it was all 
that had so far been offered to him, and he had 
accepted it eagerly. „ 

“I’m sure you’ll take no end of care of her, he 
said, glancing towards his mother. ... 

“You needn’t be afraid. And I think when she 
gets a little better that she’ll love the peace of it. 


368 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Write sometimes, Anna-” 

“Yes. And someday perhaps when youVe time 
you’ll come out and pay us a visit.’’ 

“Ah, you mustn’t tempt me. I’ve got to work in 
good earnest. I feel that I’ve only played up till 
now.” 

“Don’t overwork, Michael,” she said, struck sud¬ 
denly by his thin, rather gaunt look, his sad tired 
eyes. 

“You must get in now,” he said hastily, moving 
towards the train. Mrs. Nugent was sitting in a 
corner seat, enveloped in furs. For a time at least 
her clothes would show no diminution of elegance. 
Michael felt that he would have hated to see his 
mother looking shabby. 

“Good-bye, darling Michael. Take care of your¬ 
self,” said Mrs. Nugent. 

Michael sprang into the compartment and kissed 
her. 

“I know you’ll be all right with Anna,” he said. 

He turned and shook hands with Anna. 

“Don’t forget to write-” 

The train moved slowly out of the station. It 
seemed to him then that a chapter of his life was 
definitely closed. And it was the long chapter that 
held Anna. 


3 

Michael worked all day at the office in the city, 
returning in the evening to a small room he had 
taken in Bloomsbury near the British Museum. It 
was a part of London he had always liked, and on 
Saturday afternoons when he was free he felt that 
the Reading Room would be a great attraction. 

Often now he sat up far into the night, writing. 
As it was hh habit to rise early and go to Mas$ 




NOT GUILTY 


369 

before breakfast, his hours of sleep were necessarily 
curtailed, and the physical strain showed 
itself in a certain attenuation of both face and figure. 
He was very spare now, and the bony structure of 
his face was curiously visible, and increased that 
rather gaunt look which Anna had first noticed at 
the station. 

Some time before, he had begun a novel for his 
own amusement, and lately he had found that to 
continue it took his thoughts away from the contem¬ 
plation of those misfortunes which had befallen him¬ 
self and his family. He had gone back to it with 
fresh zest. He didn’t know whether what he wrote 
was good or bad; he only knew that it interested him, 
and that his day’s work seemed really to begin when 
he mounted the stairs to his rather austere little attic 
and sat down by the writing-table. Several of his 
contemporaries at Oxford were now making a good 
living by their pen. Of course it wasn’t likely that 
success would come to him at once—success was 
capricious and seldom came, as he knew, when she 
was most needed. Never perhaps at a highly critical 
moment like the present. 

If his mother had remained with him he felt that 
it would have been impossible to write. She would 
certainly have claimed his evening hours, at least 
until ten o’clock, and would have been perturbed 
too, had she discovered that he sat up so late. He 
knew that solitude was essential for the task he had 
set himself. 

The book grew rapidly under his hand. In every 
first book there is perhaps much of the author’s per¬ 
sonality, but on the other hand few first books ever 
see the light. The author does not all at once attain 
to that objective attitude towards the creatures of 
his own fashioning, and thus while the actual inci¬ 
dents of his book may be wholly dissimilar to his 


37 o ANNA NUGENT 

own experience of life, he cannot help something of 
himself flowing into the stream of its happenings. 

And this was Michael’s first essay in fiction. He 
had no previous book lying in a sepulchre such as 
most authors possess, wherein the yellowing pages 
and fading ink are relegated to oblivion, perhaps to 
be unearthed in the far future by some zealous literary 
executor to shame the writer’s uneasy ghost. . . . 
Although he had contributed occasional short articles 
to evening papers, and had written a poem or twd 
in his Oxford days, fiction had hitherto been to him 
an unknown, very attractive field. He was astonished 
and also a little bit preoccupied at the facility with 
which he wrote, at the amount of his nightly output. 
He had a natural fear that what had been achieved 
so easily could not possibly be of any value. There 
was no one to tell him that his style had an indi¬ 
vidual note, authentic and sincere. Once or twice it 
did occur to him that he wished Anna could see it. 
But no—she would have been far too partial a critic; 
she would have been so afraid, too, of discouraging 
him by any adverse comment. 

When it was finished he sent it, with some hesita¬ 
tion, to be typed. The typing of such a long manu¬ 
script was an expensive affair. But on the other 
hand he could hardly expect any publisher to read 
through that mass of handwriting, not always too 
clear. . 

On its return he took it to a friend of his who 
was employed by a firm of publishers. If this plan 
failed he made up his mind to relegate the task of 
placing it to a literary agent, but in the first instance 
he would approach Carr. 

“I say—could you look at this for me?” he said, 
putting the heap of typed sheets on the table. 

Carr in describing the episode afterwards to a 
mutual friend said: “That poor chap Nugent came 


NOT GUILTY 


37i 


to me with a book he’d just written. He was looking 
frightfully hard up.” 

“They did lose everything, I heard.” 

“Yes. He gave me the impression he must be 
almost starving.” 

Carr had not seen Michael since the disaster that 
had wrecked the firm of Nugent and Son. But before 
then he had often visited at the house in Lancaster 
Gate, and had dined there fairly regularly. He had 
always liked Michael, but had lately lost sight of 
him, which was scarcely to be wondered at consider¬ 
ing Nugent’s present mode of life. 

“Well, we’ll have a look at it,” said Carr, handling 
the typed sheets in a way that made Michael shiver, 
just as if he had seen a child being roughly used. 

“Thanks very much. You’ll let me know as soon 
as you can?” 

“Oh, yes—we always deal with them promptly. 
It’s a bit long from the look of it.” 

“Oh, is it?” 

“Yes. Of course when you’ve made your name it 
doesn’t matter what length your books are.” 

“I don’t think I could cut it down.” 

“They all say that,” laughed Carr. 

Michael went away feeling discouraged. “I 
oughtn’t to have taken it to Carr—it isn’t in his line,” 
he thought. He felt unreasonably sensitive about it 
—the book seemed so intimately bound up with his 
own life and all its hopes and fears. It was part 
of him, flesh of his flesh. Only to see Carr handling 
it had hurt him. He had touched it so carelessly. 
Of course to him it was perhaps only one of hun¬ 
dreds of unsalable, unpublishable manuscripts. Carr 
would only see its faults, its verbosity, its lack of 
“shape”—the errors of technique which can be reme¬ 
died only by constant practice. . . . 

Yet now it was finished, Michael wondered how 


ANNA NUGENT 


372 

he had been able to write it, straight oft like that, 
with hardly any difficulty, and with such rapidity. 
Never had there been a book so little planned. He 
had just gone on quietly watching the progress of 
events, the movements of the actors, like a deeply 
interested spectator who was pledged to note down 
all he saw. He couldn’t have told anyone just how 
he had done it. 

A fortnight later he received a note from Carr: 
“Come round and see me this evening at my club. 

I want to have a talk with you about Retribution .” 

Michael felt strangely elated. Of course it might 
mean nothing, but it was a great deal more encourag¬ 
ing than to receive a parcel containing the rejected 
manuscript with the usual stereotyped letter of 
politely-worded refusal. He dared not, however, 
hope much from the interview with Carr. He was 
probably just going to let him down easily. 

Michael entered the club to which he had once 
belonged, feeling a trifle shabby and ashamed of his 
shabbiness. Carr appeared, looking very spruce and 
smart. He shook Michael’s hand warmly. 

“Come in here.” He led the way into a small 
room. “We can talk privately here.” 

They sat down near the fire, for the night was 
cold, and then Carr said: 

“I liked your book though it’s not quite in my 
line. But I got old Bishopstone to read it, and he’s 
frightfully keen on it.” 

“Keen on it?” Michael’s face had gone deathly 
white; he grasped the arm of his chair. 

“Like a drink, old thing?” said Carr, cheerily. 
His voice sounded a long day off. 

“No ... no. ... Tell me about Bishopstone.” 

“Well, he seems willing to give you a sum down 
for all the rights—American included. We don’t 
generally do that, and sometimes it works out against 


NOT GUILTY 


373 


the author if the book makes a hit. Still, in your 
case I thought you might prefer it.” He glanced 
almost involuntarily at the pale thin face, the steady 
blue eyes, and then at the worn clothes. 

“In my case it would certainly be very useful,” 
said Michael, forcing a smile. He was surely dream¬ 
ing. “How much-?” 

Carr named a sum which seemed to Michael out 
of all proportion to the work in question. It had 
been so easy, had cost him so little, except for those 
few hours robbed each night from sleep, and that 
awful bill for typing at the end. 

“Come and have some dinner. We’ll discuss it in 
more detail afterwards.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t dine here in this kit!” said Michael, 
ruefully. 

“Rot, man! What does it matter?” He led the 
way into the dining-room. It was early, and to 
Michael’s relief there were not many people present, 
and he saw no one whom he knew. 

It seemed strange to be having what he called a 
“civilized” meal again. Since his misfortunes he had 
steadily refused all invitations, pleading lack of time, 
and his frugal meals had been eaten in cheap restau¬ 
rants or tea-rooms. And lately he had been driven 
to an extra measure of economy in order to pay 
the typist’s bill. He had parted with clothes and 
some of his books to make up the necessary sum. 

“Look here, Nugent,” said Carr presently, when 
the meal was almost finished. “You mustn’t think 
you’re going to wake up and find yourself famous, 
or any bunkum of that sort. Still, the book’s got a 
fresh idea, and it’s strongly written and well-treated, 
shows a grasp of men and things. Been writing 
long?” 

“I’ve scribbled a little for a long time, but this 
is the first shot I’ve had at fiction.” 



374 


ANNA NUGENT 


“Got other work, I suppose?” 

“Yes, a job in the city that eats up most of my 
day.” 

So he had worked at night—he looked like it, 
reflected Carr. 

“If this makes the hit Bishopstone expects, you’ll 
be able to give up your job and concentrate upon 
writing.” 

“Oh, do you think that’s possible?” 

“Other men have done it,” said Carr. “But 
there’s always a risk, till you’ve got your oar well 
in. Bishopstone doesn’t seem to think there’s any 
doubt. I tell you this—if he hadn’t thought fright¬ 
fully well of it, he’d never have made you such an 
offer. You’ll hear from us in a day or two—we’ll 
send you the contract.” 

Michael felt elated. His thoughts flew to the 
Villa Caterina; this evening it seemed a little closer, 
so close indeed that he could see the lights on the 
Bay and shore, and hear the wash of the sea against 
the dark tufa cliffs. . . . 

“It’s just eight months-” he murmured dream¬ 

ily, forgetting Carr’s presence. Eight months since 
he had left Sant’ Elena. It seemed like centuries. 
Never had any single year of his life been so 
crammed with events, tragic, untoward, sublimely 
beautiful, as this one that had passed. And out of 
the mists of it he seemed to see Anna—the fairy 
child as he had once called her-—beckoning to him. 

“Eight months?” Carr caught at the words. 

“Oh, nothing. . . . Michael looked embarrassed. 

Carr noticed that he had eaten little, almost as 
if he had reached that stage of hunger when the 
sight of food sickens rather than tempts. 

“I say, old chap, you’ve been overdoing it, haven’t 
you? Take a holiday—that’s my advice.” 



NOT GUILTY 


375 

“Perhaps I may—on the strength of this,” said 
Michael. “When shall I have the proofs?” 

“Oh, perhaps in about a month. And we’ll send 
you something in advance if you like, and the balance 
on publication.” 

“It would be awfully good of you to send me— 
anything you can—in advance,” said Michael. “And 
I say, Carr, I’m sure you’ve had a lot to do with 
getting me such favorable terms. I’m most awfully 
grateful.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Carr. 

He knew that the book in any case would make a 
sentimental appeal. People would know that the au¬ 
thor was a son of the Nugent who had dropped down 
dead in court immediately after hearing the jury’s 
verdict of Not guilty . It would be read for that 
reason if for no other. And in this way it would 
have a good start. That meant a great deal when 
the work was that of a new, untried author. But 
Michael’s book possessed qualities that would insure 
for it a certain steady sale. 

Carr had immense faith in the flair of his chief, 
who was said never to have made a mistake in the 
commercial value of a book, and who was willing 
to secure Michael’s upon almost any terms. Carr 
had obtained a larger sum than Bishopstone had 
thought of offering in the first instance. He had 
pleaded for his friend. 

“If we let this go he’s bound to find another 
publisher,” he had said, convincingly. 

Michael went back to his lodgings that night with 
a queer sense of elation. It didn’t seem real—this 
prospective affluence. But even that seemed more 
probable than that his book should be any good. He 
couldn’t judge of it himself—it had interested him, 
and he had read it again almost eagerly when it 


ANNA NUGENT 


376 

came back from being typed. And sometimes while 
writing it he had forgotten his poverty-stricken sur¬ 
roundings, his cold, fireless room, his hunger for 
sleep, and had been unaware of the passing of time. 
But he had never thought it would be accepted so 
soon. Behind Carr’s careless, slightly superior man¬ 
ner he had discerned something of secret enthusiasm. 

He wouldn’t leave his mother at Sant’ Elena living 
on Anna’s diminished fortune any longer. . . . She 
had been there nearly three months, and if she still 
wished to remain and Anna proved willing to keep 
her, it must be upon a fixed monetary basis. It had 
always hurt him to feel that his mother was prac¬ 
tically living on Anna’s charity, after all she had 
done, too, in the way of assisting them. But he was 
cheered to think that there was some hope now of 
his being able in the future to pay her back every 
farthing. . . . He had only to work . . . and if 
this book proved the success Carr seemed to think it 
would, he meant to give himself up wholly to the 
game of writing. 


CHAPTER XIX 

THE DREAM IS FULFILLED 
I 

Dear Michael: (wrote Anna) 

Aunt Juliet isn’t very well, and I know she wants 
to see you, but when I suggest inviting you to come 
here she always says she doesn’t dare ask you to leave 
your work. She is so afraid you might lose your post 
if you took a holiday so soon. But you will know best 
if it is at all feasible, and so I am writing to say how 
glad we should both be if you could manage a little 
visit. The place is looking so lovely now, and to-day the 
sea is like a lake that mirrors everything. It is all blue 
and silver, and the mountains are blue too, the color of 
those dark grapes we get in Italy, before the bloom is 
rubbed off them. The wistaria is over, and the storm 
we had two days ago swept off the last blossoms from 
the Judas trees and left them lying in bright pink heaps 
on the terrace. But the roses are in perfection and are 
rioting over everything, and the Madonna lilies are out, 
and last night I saw a firefly. Do come if you can. 
I’m sure the change would do you good. And it seems 
such a very long time since you were here. And then 
Aunt Juliet isn’t well, and I know she wants you. By 
the way, I sent for the doctor last week. I think he 
is rather anxious about her, but she is not suffering any 
pain. She sends her best love. 

Michael received the letter soon after his inter¬ 
view with Carr. At first it aroused no. particular 
anxiety within him, but on a second reading he dis¬ 
covered at least matter for serious preoccupation. 

377 


ANNA NUGENT 


378 

Two facts stood out very clearly. His mother was 
ill—perhaps more ill than Anna had ventured to tell 
him—and she wanted him. She hadn’t liked to ask 
him to come, and Anna had obviously made the sug¬ 
gestion on her own responsibility. There was some¬ 
thing even a little urgent in that: Do come. . . . 

He had already received a check from Carr for 
half the amount he was to receive for the full rights 
in Retribution. There was nothing to prevent him 
from starting for Villa Caterina as soon as his pass¬ 
port was in order. As yet he had said nothing to 
his relations about the book; he had wanted to keep 
the matter a secret until nearer the day of publica¬ 
tion. 

“The doctor was anxious. . . . She suffered no 
pain.” Scraps from Anna’s letter floated through his 
brain, teasing him with their ominous suggestion of 
something not fully disclosed. And if the matter 
hadn’t been urgent, Anna would not have written 
that letter. It must have cost her something to invite 
him to the Villa Caterina. A man who had told 
her frankly that he loved and couldn’t marry her. 
A man, too, who had practically extorted a confession 
of love from her. Oh, there were things between 
himself and Anna—beautiful dead things—that made 
it very difficult for them to meet. He didn’t want to 
go there, he didn’t want to see Anna . . . and yet 
paradoxically the Villa Caterina was the one place 
in the world where he wished to be. _ 

Practical matters took up his time for the next 
day or two. He made all the necessary preparations 
for his journey, and also had an interview with his 
chief, tendering his resignation. Mr. Edscombe, an 
old friend of his father’s, was astonished. 

“I suppose you know what you’re doing, my boy, 
but it isn’t easy nowadays to get even the sort of 
work you’re doing here,” he said. 


THE DREAM IS FULFILLED 379 


“Yes, I know that. I appreciate all you’ve done 
for me. But my mother’s ill in Italy, and I must go 
to her.” 

“Well, in the circumstances we might stretch a 
point and keep your job open for you for a few 
weeks. You wouldn’t want to be away longer than 
that, would you ?” 

Michael was touched by his kindness, and the note 
of almost paternal solicitude in his voice. Never¬ 
theless it was with a secret pride that he was able 
to say: “You see, I’ve got the prospect of literary 
work. I’m going to publish a novel. But it’s most 
awfully kind of you all the same.” 

Mr. Edscombe was not without a certain contempt 
for literary men; they so seldom possessed any busi¬ 
ness sense, and it was often remarkable that even 
the highly successful ones left but moderate fortunes. 
However, he supposed that Nugent knew his own 
affairs best, so he said heartily: “I hope it will be 
a tremendous success. I never look at one myself 
but my wife’s a great novel-reader—I’ll tell her to 
be sure and ask for it at the library.” Then he 
added: “We shall be sorry to lose you here. We’ve 
seldom had a clerk like you, and we’d marked you 
down for a promotion quite soon. Good-bye.” 

Michael was rather thankful to escape. On his 
way home he sent a telegram to Anna to say that he 
should arrive on the following Thursday morning. 
Now that everything was settled he felt a queer im¬ 
patience to start. 

He felt as if Tuesday—the day of his departure 
—would never come. Mingled with his impatience 
there was an undercurrent of anxiety which he tried 
to assure himself was causeless. Anna’s letter had 
not hinted at any danger. And yet, on the other 
hand, he felt she would never have sent for him 
unless there had been urgent need. 


ANNA NUGENT 


380 

Carr informed him that the proofs could easily 
be sent out to him, if he had not returned by the 
time they were ready. There was really nothing to 
detain him in London, and it was with a delightful 
sense of being free and his own master again that 
he drove to Victoria Station in time for the boat-train. 

2 

Anna met him at the station at Sant’ Elena in 
that cool early-morning hour when land and sea and 
sky were all merged in one divine crystal clearness. 
She looked very calm and composed in her white 
linen dress and shady straw hat. 

He held her hand, and their eyes met. When 
they looked at each other it was with a sense of 
remembered secrets, of exquisite beautiful hours, and 
those things which made for a more poignant inti¬ 
macy—the anxiety and suspense of dark days once 
shared. . . . 

It was the remembrance of those days, he thought, 
that made Anna seem as if she did indeed belong 
to him. 

“Mother didn’t come?” he said, when the first 
greetings were over. He had somehow expected her 
to be there. 

“No. She’s never up so early as this. I’m afraid 
you’ll find her changed,” said Anna, looking steadily 
in front of her. 

Something in her tone struck him, and he said: 

“Your letter puzzled me. You didn’t mean, did 
you, that it was anything serious?” 

“Well, not serious in the sense of immediate 
danger. But she is ill, you know. At first I thought 
it was just nervous shock and that she would get 
better. But it’s her heart, and she’s getting weaker 
. . . and that’s why I thought you ought to come.” 


THE DREAM IS FULFILLED 381 


“I came as soon as I could.” 

“Yes. I didn’t think you’d be able to get away 
so quickly. I hope it wasn’t frightfully inconveni¬ 
ent?” 

“Oh, no; I’d been thinking of chucking my job 
for some weeks past. I only did it a little sooner 
than I intended.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry you had to do that. Won’t it 
make a difference, Michael?” 

“Edscombe was jolly decent about it. Offered to 
keep my job open for me for a few weeks. But 

the fact is, Anna-” He paused, and something 

of the old happy light came into his eyes. “I think 
you must be the first to hear my secret.” 

She suddenly realized that he was looking ever so 
much happier than he had done a few months ago. 
When she had parted from him in London, he had 
looked worn and almost ill with grief and suffering. 
Now he was not so greatly changed from the Michael 
of a year ago, and as she wondered what stroke of 
luck, what unexpected good fortune had contributed 
to this, a faint misgiving chilled her. Perhaps he 
was going to tell her that he was engaged to be 
married. She looked up quickly into his face. 

“You’ll laugh, Anna, but I’m going to come out 
as a novelist!” 

“Really? A novelist?” 

“Yes. I’ve written a book, and Carr’s got old 
Bishopstone to say he’ll publish it.” 

“But Michael—how did you find time, with all 
your other work?” 

“Midnight oil. Where I was so lucky was in 
finding a publisher to take it up without any delay!” 

“Oh, I’m so awfully glad. You always wanted to 
write—do you remember? It is splendid!” 

He was touched by her frank enthusiasm. 

“Your mother will be proud!” 



382 


ANNA NUGENT 


‘‘It made it possible for me to come out here. You 
see they gave me a lot in advance!” 

“But isn’t that unusual?” 

“Well, I’m telling you I’ve been unusually lucky. 
I only hope Carr won’t regret it. Perhaps it’ll be 
an awful frost. But Anna, I thought if Mother 
wanted to go back to London now I could take her.” 

Something in his tone startled her. Why should 
he think Mrs. Nugent wished to leave the Villa 
Caterina? She had never mentioned any desire of 
the sort to Anna. What had made Michael think of 
such a thing ? 

“You must see her first. But she’s never said she 
wished to go away.” 

“Well, she can’t remain here forever. You’ve 
been far too kind and—generous—as it is. It 
wouldn’t be fair to you. . . 

“It wouldn’t be fair to me to take her away now,” 
she answered. 

“We mustn’t,” said Michael, “begin by quarrel¬ 
ing.” He smiled down at her. 

“I’m so sure, you see, that she doesn’t want to go. 
It would be almost cruel to persuade her. And 
when you begin about my kindness and generosity. 
. . .” Her eyes shone with indignation. 

“Oh, I promise not to sing that tune to her,” he 
hastily informed her. 

They were in sight now of the villa, standing 
square to the sea upon its rocky promontory and 
making a flush of warm pink between the trees. 
The path from the gate was bordered on both sides 
by a rim of wonderful scarlet geraniums, great bushes 
of them, splendid and flame-like with their red velvet 
blossoms. The pines and cypresses and ilex-trees 
made beautiful blots of dark green fire against the 
pallor of sea and sky. To the right the blunt purple 
arm of San Gervasio was thrust into the sea. Far off 


THE DREAM IS FULFILLED 383 


they could see the great headland by Spezia outlined 
in shadowy silhouette. 

They went up the path to the house, and Anna 
opened the door for him to go in. At the foot of 
the staircase she paused: 

“Your mother’s in my old room. It’s so much 
larger and more comfortable. I thought she would 
be happier there.” 

“Oh, but Anna—you shouldn’t. . . .” 

“I didn’t tell her it was my room, so you mustn’t. 
I felt she’d like to be there. And she simply loves the 
view when she can’t come down.” 

“Can’t she even come down to the loggia?” he 
asked, and his astonishment was mingled with a re¬ 
newed sense of dismayed anxiety. 

“She hasn’t been downstairs at all for a fortnight. 
Not since I wrote to you. Shall I show you the way? 
You can’t think how much she’s looking forward to 

seeing you. The only thing is-” She paused and 

looked at him dubiously.. “I’m afraid you may find 
it difficult to go away again, now you are here. Still, 
perhaps you could write? I think I could rig up a 
study for you. ...” 

“Oh, no—I can’t possibly stay,” said Michael, 
with decision. 

He followed Anna up the stairs. 

At the top she paused and knocked softly at the 
door of Mrs. Nugent’s room. 

“May I come in, Aunt Juliet?” 

“Yes, come in, my dear.” 

The voice was like a mere, thin thread of sound. 
It was attenuated—a ghost-voice. It prepared 
Michael better than anything for the change of which 
Anna had tried to tell him. 

Anna opened the door, leaving it a little ajar. And 
through the aperture Michael caught a glimpse of a 
figure lying on a chaise-longue near the open window. 



384 ANNA NUGENT 

“Darling—Michael’s here. May he come in?” 

“Michael!” 

He came quickly across the room and knelt by 
the side of her couch while Mrs. Nugent stretched out 
two fragile transparent hands and took his face in 
them. 

Anna had quietly withdrawn and closed the door. 
And these were the words that greeted him: 

“Oh, Michael—I did want you. I am 
dying. . . .” 

3 

When Anna saw him next, coming towards her 
on the terrace, his stricken face told its own tale. 
For a few minutes he stood by her side in silence, lean¬ 
ing his arms in the old way on the ledge of the stone 
balustrade. The light from that bright sky hurt 
his eyes that were still sore and hot with unshed tears. 

“I’m sorry . . . Michael. . . 

“You should have told me.” 

“She wouldn’t let me. She was so afraid of dis¬ 
turbing you. But at last I felt I must write.” 

“Has she been like this long?” 

“The great change for the worse came when I 
wrote to you a fortnight ago. But there’s no imme¬ 
diate danger.” 

“We must write to May and Rodney. They ought 
to come.” 

“Can Rodney leave Stella?” 

“Yes, she’s perfectly all right. And she’s still with 
her own people. He can come quite well; he could 
travel out with May. We must talk it over.” 

“Yes, but you must rest first, Michael. After your 
journey—and all your work.” She noticed for the 
first time how thin he was. 

“Anna, I could move her away from here if you 
liked. Why should you have the trouble of this ill- 


THE DREAM IS FULFILLED 385 

ness in the house ? As you said, there is simply no 
question of her going back to England or of my 
leaving her. Don’t you think we’d better make other 
arrangements?” 

Oh, Michael—don’t talk like that! I love having 
her, and she’s so happy. I think she forgets some¬ 
times she isn’t in her own home. And Father Den- 
^ a ni s here—he often comes and sits with her.” 

Sits with her ?” Michael looked astonished and 
puzzled. 

“Yes—it’s made a wonderful difference to her. 
She was so miserable and depressed at firsthand now 
she’s quite brave and bright. You mustn’t think of 
taking her away—and you mustn’t think of going 
yourself ... for her sake, Michael.” 

“Oh, I can’t leave her. I see that.” 

“And you used to like it here,” she reminded him. 

He turned away. “It was different then.” 

“Is it all so changed?” 

“For me—everything is changed. . . 

He sat with his mother a great deal. At night she 
was taken care of by a nun of an English nursing 
order, but Anna, as he soon discovered, was head- 
nurse during the day. There was a warm friendship 
now between Mrs. Nugent and Anna, close and inti¬ 
mate like that of a mother and daughter. But when 
he came into the sick-room Anna always went away, 
leaving them alone together. 

He hadn’t liked coming back to the Villa Caterina 
—Anna knew that—but after a few days he seemed 
more reconciled to his lot, and less inclined to believe 
that he was horribly in the way. It was very different 
from his former visit, when everything had seemed 
so fair and beautiful, and which yet at the end had 
terminated in what for him had been a real tragedy, 
the engagement of Anna to Count Selvi. Now she 
was free, and he was practically ruined; the chances 


ANNA NUGENT 


386 

of his making good seemed to him very remote, in 
spite of the faint hope he could not help cherishing 
for the success of Retribution. And here he was, see¬ 
ing Anna every day, intimately associated with her 
in all the hopes and fears that were bound up with 
his mother’s illness. Daily he found his position more 
and more difficult. Father Denham did not again 
refer to the subject when talking to him, though the 
two men saw each other frequently. Michael was 
quite in the dark as to the state of Anna’s feelings. 
She was older now, more of a woman; the happenings 
of last winter had given her a maturer outlook, and 
it might well be that her girlish dreams, too, had 
changed. Once, it is true, he might have played some 
little part in them, but he could not believe that he 
was anything to her now. She was so quiet and 
friendly, thoughtful and solicitous for his comfort, 
anxious that he should feel perfectly at home. Noth¬ 
ing else, nothing more. 

But he liked to think she was so necessary to his 
mother, waiting on her just as a little daughter might 
have done. She wasn’t only a fairy child; there was 
something rocky and dependable in her character. 
But all the time they were strange and reserved with 
each other. The old frank friendship had quite gone. 
They were like two people sharing an uncomfortable 
secret, to which no allusion must ever be made. And 
all the time between them was the dark shadow of 
Mrs. Nugent’s illness. 

The change in her was continuous though barely 
perceptible to those who watched her day by day. 
There was simply nothing to be done, and it was a 
comfort to Michael to feel that she was quite happy 
and had everything she wanted, and that they were 
both doing all they could for her. She was soon too 
weak to talk much, but when he was sitting with her, 
she used to lie there with her eyes fixed upon him. 


THE DREAM IS FULFILLED 387 

One day she said suddenly: “Michael.” 

“Yes, mother?” 

“I’ve thought—I’ve hoped, perhaps, that you and 
Anna. . . .” 

“Oh, mother—that was all at an end long ago. 
Not that it ever had a beginning. 

“When she left London, two years ago, I thought 
you were beginning to care for her.” 

“Yes, I cared for her then. I cared very much.” 

“And she didn’t?” 

“She got engaged to Selvi.” 

“Oh, that ought never to have happened. She 
told me how glad she was when it was broken off—to 
think she was free. . . .” 

He took her hand in his. It was so slender and 
shrunken now, very white and transparent. 

“Mother, I do love Anna still. But you must see 
how it is. I’m hardly in a position to marry.” 

“With your writing—” she said. 

“Yes. But it wouldn’t be fair to her.” 

“Michael. . . .” 

“Yes, dear Mother.” 

“Don’t think me a troublesome old woman. But 
I should like to know you two were married before 
I die. You love her, and I’m sure she loves you. 
Anna is very faithful. . . . Once in London I said 
something to her to try to make her think you didn’t 
care for her except as a child, a little cousin. But 
now . . . It’s what I want for you. You mustn’t let 
your pride or anything else stand in your way. And 
Michael. . . .” Her voice sank to a whisper. He 
had to bend down to catch the words. 

“Yes?” he said gently. 

“Let it be soon. ...” 


3 88 


ANNA NUGENT 


4 

After dinner that evening Michael and Anna weftt 
out into the warm, windy darkness of the garden. 
Anna had wrapped herself in a white Venetian shawl 
that made her look very pale, almost like a spirit, he 
thought. They followed the familiar path between 
the thick groves of ilex and pine-trees, past the wan 
Madonna lilies that offered their fragrance like some 
sweet incense, standing there tall and erect, their 
blossoms showing pallid in the gloom. 

“Come on to the terrace. You’ve been indoors 
nearly all day—I’m sure you need some fresh air. 
I only wish you’d come out in the boat. . . . 
Michael said. 

“No—it’s too rough to-night. It wouldn’t be safe. 
Don’t you hear what a noise the sea’s making?” 

They were standing on the terrace now, and below 
them they could hear the sea as it washed heavily 
against the steps, cut out of the cliff, that led down 
to the landing stage—heaving too, against the rocks 
and tossing the white spray into the air. There was 
no moon, but the stars were very bright, and low in 
the southwest Spica was shining with its steady, 
golden brilliance. 

They could see the bright, colorless light flashing 
from the lantern on the summit of San Gervasio, and 
the long rows of lamps, glimmering in the distance, 
that marked some coast-town lying between the moun¬ 
tains and the sea. 

All day his mother’s words had haunted him. But 
now that the opportunity he had deliberately sought 
had come, he felt unable to speak. He had been in 
Italy for a month, and to-night a parcel of proofs had 
reached him from Carr. They made him feel as if 
his feet were already firmly placed on the first rung of 
the ladder. 


THE DREAM IS FULFILLED 389 

“Anna,” he said suddenly. 

She turned quickly. “Yes, Michael?” 

“It was here, wasn’t it, that I first told you—what 
you were to me?” 

“Yes.” 

You had just said that you were going to marry 
Selvi. . . 

“Yes. It was that day-” 

She could remember the scene so well, a quiet and 
beautiful summer evening, full of the fierce, almost 
sickly, scent of the tuberoses. Always they had re¬ 
minded her of Michael, and of that bitter moment; 
she had given orders for them to be removed before 
she left Italy last winter. 

To-night it was even more beautiful, with the 
Madonna lilies looking pure and white in the dusk, 
and the fireflies flitting among them like winged 
jewels. 

“I wish I dared tell you, Anna, that I love you now 
more than ever.” 

All these weeks she had believed that whatever 
love he had once had for her had perished under the 
strain and stress of last winter. They had both been 
so busy in the simple practical occupation of tending 
Mrs. Nugent, that there had been but little room for 
anything so personal as a revival of that old love. 
She had never expected to hear him tell her again 
that he loved her. Sometimes she had even fancied 
that he was weary of staying there, that he was half 
impatient to go away. . . . 

Now his words came to her across the warm dark¬ 
ness of the June night like some strange music that 
formed part of all the music of the world—the 
soughing of the wind in the cypress-trees, the break¬ 
ing of the waves at their feet . . . the wild, beautiful 
sounds of Nature that eternally haunted this sea-girt 
garden of hers. 



390 


ANNA NUGENT 


She came a little nearer. 

“Tell me, Michael . . . I want to hear.’ 

“Do you really mean that, Anna?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

His hand grasped hers, he drew her gently to him. 

“Fve loved you since you were a little girl. I can’t 
tell you what it’s been like staying here all these 
weeks—seeing you every day—loving you more and 
more, and knowing all the time that I was almost a 
pauper—that I’d no right to ask you to be my wife.” 

“You never thought it might be worse for me to 
have to bear your silence, Michael?” She lifted her 
face to his, smiling. She wondered now that she could 
ever have doubted his love. It seemed the most won¬ 
derful, and at the same time the most simple and 
natural thing in the world, that Michael should love 
her. 

“And we shan’t be paupers,” she went on; we 
can live here, and you’ll have your writing. But your 
mother . . . we must tell her. Oh, Michael, do you 
think she’ll mind?” # . 

“Mind? Why she wants it more than anything! 
She wants it to take place soon. Before. . . .” His 
voice dropped. “Could you do that for her, Anna? 
I know it’s asking a great deal of you. But we have 
waited for each other so long, haven’t we?” His eyes 
were fixed wistfully upon her face. 

He bent down and kissed her. “Could you, 
Anna?” he said. 

She heard the crisp wash of the sea beating against 
the steps and rocks far beneath them, the bubbling 
sound of a nightingale’s song coming from the 
shadows of the ilex-grove, the stirring of the wind as 
it brushed the branches of the pines above their heads, 
and mingling with them all Michael’s voice telling her 


THE DREAM IS FULFILLED 


39i 


that he loved her. And now he would never go away 
again. Their life would be spent here. 

“I should like to give her this happiness,” he said. 
“Shall we go up and tell her?” said Anna. 

He drew her hand within his arm and they went 
towards the house. 


CHAPTER XX 

A LETTER FROM COUNTESS BENEDETTO SELVI 

F ROM Countess Selvi Lawton, Villa Selvi, Sant’ 
Elena, Liguria, Italy, to Mrs. Phipps-Moxon, 
Grosvenor Mansions, Park Lane. 

July 25th, 19-• 

Dearest Ellen : 

We have come here for a few days to stay with my 
mother-in-law, and the first thing that greeted us was 
the surprising news of Anna’s marriage. She and 
Michael were married very quietly about three weeks 
ago at the Cathedral here by Father Denham. They 
had to forego their wedding journey because Mrs. 
Nugent was too ill to be left, so they returned to Villa 
Caterina after the ceremony. It seems that Mrs. 
Nugent had implored them to have the wedding before 
she died. And they were really only just in time, for she 
died not a week later. She was received into the Church 
by Father Denham some days before her death, and 
had the Last Sacraments while still quite conscious. I 
have learnt to look at these things rather differently 
under Benny’s aegis, so can picture the consolation it 
must have been to them all. 

Of course you have heard what a hit Michael’s book 
Retribution is making, although it has only been out such 
a short time. He takes it very quietly, I believe, but 
Anna is tremendously proud! He intends, I hear, to de¬ 
vote himself entirely to literary work, and that means 
they will go on living at the Villa Caterina. It’s rather 
like a fairy tale, isn’t it? But Anna’s so good, she de¬ 
serves her luck. . . . 

I’ve seen her. She looks quietly but radiantly happy. 

392 


A LETTER FROM COUNTESS SELF! 393 

Of course Mrs. Nugent’s illness tried her a good deal; 
she helped to nurse her, and latterly I believe was hardly 
ever out of the room. She looks a little tired, and they 
are just going off to Switzerland for a few weeks’ rest. 

I think she’s been in love with him for years. It’s one 
of those marriages that really do seem to have been made 
in heaven. I never thought Anna pretty before, but now 
she looks quite beautiful. They are perfectly happy, and 
one can’t help feeling glad that they have come together 
at last. 

Rodney and Stella have been out here too, and have 
only just gone back to England. Things seem to have 
been patched up between them, and I really don’t see 
what she has to complain of. They have plenty of 
money, and I hear their little son is simply lovely. It’s 
time she stopped howling. I’m told Rodney gives Anna 
all the credit for this change—she spoke to Stella so 
wisely and kindly, and tried to put some sense into her 
silly little head. I caught a glimpse of Rodney one 
day in Rapallo. I won’t say more, but I do prefer my 
Benedetto. 

The countess is quite civil, and I’m behaving like a 
model daughter-in-law. I do wish you could see Anna! 

Your affectionate, 

Gay Selvi. 


THE END 


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Roche, S.J. Paper, *$0.12. 

GLORIES OF MARY. St. Alphonsus. 

glorie£ s 'of THE SACRED HEART. 

Hausherr, S.J. net, $1.75. 
GREETINGS TO THE CHRIST-CHILD. 
Poems, net, $1.00. 

HELP FOR THE POOR SOULS. Ack- 
ermann. $0.90. 

HELPS TO A SPIRITUAL LIFE. 

Schneider, net, $0.85. 

HIDDEN TREASURE, THE. St. 

Leonard, net, $0.75. 

HOLY HOUR, THE. Keiley. i6mo. 

HOLY HOUR OF ADORATION. 
Stang. net, $0.90. 

HOLY SOULS BOOK. Reflections on 
Purgatory. A Complete Prayer-Book. 
By Rev. F. X. Lasance. Imitation 
leather, round comers, red edges, $1.50; 
gold edges, $2.00; real leather, gold edges, 
$2.75; Turkey Morocco, limp, gold roll, 
$4.00. 

HOLY VIATICUM OF LIFE AS OF 
DEATH. Dever. net, $1.25. 
IMITATION OF THE SACRED 
HEART. Arnoudt. net, $175. 

IN HEAVEN WE KNOW OUR OWN. 

Blot, S.J. net, $0.75. 

INTERIOR OF JESUS AND MARY. 

Grotj, S.J. 2 vols. net, $3.00. 

JESUS CHRIST THE KING OF OUR 
HEARTS. Lepicier, O.S.M. net, 

LIFERS LESSONS. Garesche, S.J. 
net, $1.25. 

LITTLE ALTAR BOYS’ MANUAL. 

LITTLE COMMUNICANTS’ PRAYER- 
BOOK. Sloan. $0.25. 

LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY. 

Lasance. net, $0.25. 

LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. JOSEPH. 
Lings, net, $0.25. 

LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. RITA. 
McGrath. $0.90. 

LITTLE MASS BOOK, THE. Lynch. 
Paper, *$o.o8, 


LITTLE MONTH OF THE SOULS IN 
PURGATORY, net, % 0.60. 

LITTLE OFFICE OF THE BLESSED 
VIRGIN MARY. In Latin and Fng- 
lish, net, $1.50; in Latin onl> net, 

L&fe OFFICE OF THE IMMACU¬ 
LATE CONCEPTION. Paper, *$0.08. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Vest-pocket 
Edition. A Little Book of Prayer for 
Men and Women. By Rev. F. X. 

Oblong, 32mo. $0.50. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. A Book of 
Prayer for Men and Women. By Rev. 
F. X. Lasance. Extra Large Type 

, Edition, 544 pages, i6mo. $1.50. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Prayer- 
Book by Rev. F. X. Lasance. Thin 

, Edition. Im. leather. $1.10. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Prayer- 
Book. By Rev. F. X. Lasance. Thin 
Edition with Epistles and Gospels. 
$1.50. 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY EUCHAR¬ 
IST. Lasance. Imitation leather, 
limp, red edges, net, $1.25. 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY NAME. 

MANUAL OF THE SACRED HEART, 
NEW, $1.50. 

MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY, net, $0.90. 

MARLE COROLLA. Poems. Hill, 
C.P. net, $1.75. 

MARY, HELP OF CHRISTIANS. 
Hammer, O.F.M., net, $3.30. 

MASS DEVOTIONS AND READINGS 
ON THE MASS. Lasance. 'Ira. 
leather, limp, red edges, net, $1.25. 

MEANS OF GRACE. Brennan, net, 
$S-oo. 

MEDITATIONS FOR ALL THE DAYS 
OF THE YEAR. Hamon. S.S. 5 vols. 
net, 88 . 75 - 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN 
THE MONTH. Nepveit, S.J. net, 
$0.85. 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
IN THE YEAR. Baxter, S.J. net, 
$2.00. 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
IN THE YEAR ON THE LIFE OF 
OUR LORD. Vercruysse, S.J. 2 
vols. net, 84.50. 

MEDITATIONS FOR THE USE OF 
THE SECULAR CLERGY. Chaignon, : 
S.J. 2 vols. net, $7.00. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE LIFE, THE 
TEACHING AND THE PASSION 
OF JESUS CHRIST. Ilg-Clarke. 

2 vols. net, $5.00. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE MYSTERIES 
OF OUR HOLY FAITH, Barrato, 
S.J. 2 vols., net, $4.50. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE PASSION OF 
OUR LORD, net, $0.85. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE SUFFER¬ 
INGS OF JESUS CHRIST Per- 
inaldo. net, 80.85. 

MISSION-BOOK OF THE REDEMP- 
TORIST FATHERS. 80.90. 

MISSION BOOK FOR THE MAR¬ 
RIED. Girardey, C.SS.R. 80.90. 


MISSION BOOK FOR THE SINGLE. 

Girardey, C.SS.R. $0.90. 

MISSION REMEMBRANCE OF THE 
REDEMPTORIST FATHERS. 
Geiermann, C.SS.R. $0.90. 
MOMENTS BEFORE THE TABER¬ 
NACLE. Russell, S.J. net , $0.60. 
MORE SHORT SPIRITUAL READ¬ 
INGS FOR MARY’S CHILDREN. 

Cecilia, net , $0.85. __ 

MOST BELOVED WOMAN, THE. 

Garesch£, S.Ji net , $1.25. 

MY GOD AND MY ALL. A Prayer- 
book for Children. By Rev. F. X. 
Lasance. Black of white cloth, square 
corners, white edges, retail, $o. 3 S : Imit. 
leather, black or white, seal grain, gold 
edges, retail, $0.70. Persian Morocco, 
gold side and edges, retail, $1.23. Same, 
white leather, retail, $1.50. Celluloid, 
retail, $1.00; with Indulgence Cross, 

MY ta pR $ AYER-BOOK. Happiness in 
Goodness. Reflections, Counsels, Pray¬ 
ers, and Devotions. By Rev. F. X. 
Lasance. i6mo. Seal grain cloth, 
s tiff covers, square corners, red edges, 
$1.25. Imitation leather, IimiL round 
corners, red edges, $1.5°. g°M edges, 
$2.00. Real Leather, $2.50. 

NEW MISSAL FOR EVERY DAY, 
THE. Complete Missal in English 
for Every Day in the Year. With 
Introduction, Notes, and a Book of 
Prayer. By Rev. F. X. Lasance. 
32mo. Imitation leather, $2.25. 

NEW TESTAMENT. i2mo edition. 
Large type. Cloth, net , $1.75; 32mo 
edition. Flexible, net , $0.45; cloth, net , 
$0.80., Amer. seal, net , $ 1 . 35 - „ 

NEW TESTAMENT AND PRAYER- 
BOOK COMBINED, net , $0.85. , 

OFFICE OF HOLY WEEK, COM- 
PLETE. Latin and English. Cut 
flush, net , $0.40; silk cloth, net , $0.60; 
Am. seal, red edges, net , $1.25; Am. 
seal, gold edges, net , $1.50. 

OUR FAVORITE DEVOTIONS. Lings. 

OUR* ^FAVORITE NOVENAS. Lings. 

net , $1.00. _ 

OUTLINE MEDITATIONS. Cecilia. 

PATHS 1 OF GOODNESS, THE. Gar- 
esche, S.J. net , $1.25. 

POCKET PRAYER-BOOK. Cloth, net , 

POLICE MEN’S AND FIREMEN’S 
COMPANION. McGrath. $0.35- _ 
PRAYER-BOOK FOR RELIGIOUS. 
Lasance. i6mo. Imitation leather, 
limp, red edges, net , $2.co. 

PRAYERS FOR OUR DEAD. Mc¬ 
Grath. Cloth, $0.35; im. leather, $0.75. 
PRISONER OF LOVE. Prayer-Book by 
Father Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1.50. „ ^ _ 

PRIVATE RETREAT FOR RELIG¬ 
IOUS. Geiermann, C.SS.R. net , $2.50. 
REFLECTIONS FOR RELIGIOUS. 
Lasance. net , $2.00. 


REJOICE IN THE LORD. Prayer- 
Book by Father Lasance. $1.75. 

ROSARY, THE CROWN OF MARY, 
By a Dominican Father, i6mo, paper, 

RULES *OF LIFE FOR THE PASTOR 
OF SOULS. Slater-Rauch. net , $1.50. 

SACRED HEART BOOK. Prayer-Book 
by Father Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1.25. 

SACRED HEART STUDIED IN THE 
SACRED SCRIPTURES. Saintrain. 
net . $0.85. 

SACRIFICE OF THE MASS WORTH¬ 
ILY CELEBRATED. Chaignon, S.J. 

SECRET 7 6'f SANCTITY. Crasset, S.J. 
net , $0.85. 

SERAPHIC GUIDE, THE. $1.00. 

SHORT MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY 
DAY. Lasausse. net , $0.85. 

SHORT VISITS TO THE BLESSED 
SACRAMENT. Lasance. net , $0.25. 

SODALIST’S VADE MECUM, net , 

SOLDIERS’ AND SAILORS’ COM¬ 
PANION. McGrath. Vest-pocket 
shape, silk cloth or khaki. $0.35. 

SOUVENIR OF THE NOVITIATE. 
Taylor, net , $0.85. 

SPIRIT OF SACRIFICE, THE, AND 
THE LIFE OF SACRIFICE IN 
THE RELIGIOUS STATE. Giraud. 
net , $3.00. 

SPIRITUAL CONSIDERATIONS. 
Buckler, O.P. net , $0.85. 

SPOILING THE DIVINE FEAST. 
de Zulueta, S.J. Paper, *$0.08. 

STORIES FOR FIRST COMMUNI¬ 
CANTS. Keller, net , $0.60. 

SUNDAY MISSAL, THE. Lasance. 
Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50. 

THINGS IMMORTAL, THE. Gar- 
esche, S.J. net , $1.25. 

THOUGHTS ON THE RELIGIOUS 
LIFE. Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, net , $2.00; Am. seal, limp, 
gold edges, net , $ 3 . 00 . 

THOUGHTS AND AFFECTIONS ON 
THE PASSION OF JESUS CHRIST 
FOR EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR. 
Bergamo, net , $3.25. 

TRUE SPOUSE OF CHRIST. Liguori. 
net , $i.7S* 

VALUES EVERLASTING, THE. 
Garesche, S.J. net , $1.25. 

VENERATION OF THE BLESSED 
VIRGIN. Rohner-Brennan. n, $0.85. 

VIGIL HOUR, THE. Ryan, S.J. Paper, 

VISn , S* TO JESUS IN THE TABER¬ 
NACLE. Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1. 75 - 

VISITS TO THE MOST HOLY SACRA¬ 
MENT. Liguori. net , $0.90. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Paper, *$0.08. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Illustrated. 
Method of Si. Alehonsus Liguori. 
•lo.is. 


4 


WAY OF THE CROSS, THE. Very 
large-type edition. Method of St. 
Alphonsus Liguori. *$0.20. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Eucharistic 
t* method. *$0.15. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. By a Jesuit 
Father. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Method of St. 

Francis of Assisi. *$0.15. 

WITH GOD. Prayer-Book by Father La- 
sance. Im. leather, limp, red edges $1.75. 
YOUNG MAN’S GUIDE, THE. Prayer- 


Book by Father Lasance. Seal grain 
Cloth, stiff covers, red edges, $1.25; 
Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50; 
gold edges, $2.00. 

YOUR INTERESTS ETERNAL. Gar- 
esche, S.J. net , $1.25. 

YOUR NEIGHBOR AND YOU. Gar- 
eschu£, S.J. net , $1.25. 

YOUR OWN HEART. Garesche, S.J. 
net , $1.25. 

YOUR, SOUL’S SALVATION. Gar¬ 
esche, S.J, net , $1.25. 


HI. THEOLOGY, LITURGY, HOLY SCRIPTURE, PHILOSOPHY, 
SCIENCE, CANON LAW 


ALTAR PRAYERS. Edition A: Eng¬ 
lish and Latin, net , $1.75., Edition B: 
German-English-Latin, net , $2.00. 
ANNOUNCEMENT BOOK. i2mo. 
net , $3.00. 

BAPTISMAL RITUAL, ismo. net , $1.50. 
BENEDICENDA. Schulte. net , $2.75. 
BURIAL RITUAL. Cloth, net , $2.50; 

sheepskin, net , $3.75. 

CASES OF CONSCIENCE. Slater, 
S.J. 2 vols. net , $6.00. 

CHRIST’S TEACHING CONCERNING 
DIVORCE. Gigot. net , 1f$2.7s. 
CLERGYMAN’S HANDBOOK OF LAW. 

Scanlon, net , $2.25. 

COMBINATION RECORD FOR SMALL 
PARISHES, net , $8.00. 
COMMENTARY ON THE PSALMS. 
Berry, net , $3.50. 

COMPENDIUM SACR.E LITURGLE. 

Wapelhorst, O.F.M. net , 1f$3.oo. 
ECCLESIASTICAL DICTIONARY. 

Thein. 4to, half mor. net , $6.50. 
GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Gigot. net , *[[$4.00. 
GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Abridged edition. Gigot. net , 

U$2.7S. 

HOLY BIBLE, THE. Large type, handy 
size. Cloth, $1.50. 

HYMNS OF THE BREVIARY AND 
MISSAL, THE. Britt, O.S.B. net , 
$6.00. 

JESUS LIVING IN THE PRIEST- 
Millet, S.J.-Byrne. net , $3.25. 
LIBER STATUS ANIMARUM, Or 
Parish Census Book. Large edition, size 
14X10 inches. 100 Families. 200 pages, 
half leather, net , $ 7 . 00 . 200 Families. 

400 pp. half leather, net , $8.00; Pocket 
Edition, net , $0.50. 

MANUAL OF HOMILETICS AND 
CATECHETICS. Schuech-Ldeber- 
mann. net , $2.25. 

MANUAL OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 

Slater. S.J. 2 vols. nej ,, $8.00. 
MARRIAGE LEGISLATION IN THE 
NEW CODE. Ayrinhac, S.S. net , 
$2.50. 


MARRIAGE RITUAL. Cloth, gilt edges, 
net , $2.50; sheepskin, gilt edges, net , $3.75. 

MESSAGE OF MOSES AND MODERN 
HIGHER CRITICISM. Gigot. Paper. 
net , 

MISSALE ROMANUM. Benziger 
Brothers’ Authorized Vatican Edition. 
Black or red Amer. morocco, gold edges, 
net , $15.00; red Amer. morocco, gold 
stamping and edges, net , $17.50; red, 
finest quality morocco, red under gold 
edges, net , $22.00. 

MORAL PRINCIPLES AND MED¬ 
ICAL PRACTICE. Coppens, S.J., 
Spalding, S.J. net , $2.50. 

OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT 
HISTORY. Gigot. net , ^$2.75. 

PASTORAL THEOLOGY. Stang. net , 
H$2.25. 

PENAL LEGISLATION IN THE NEW 
CODE OF CANON LAW. Ayrinhac, 
S.S. net , $3.00. 

PEW COLLECTION AND RECEIPT 
BOOK. Indexed. 11X8 inches, net , 
$3.00. 

PHILOSOPHIA MORALI, DE. Russo, 
S.J. Half leather, net . $2.75. 

PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE. 
McHugh, O.P. net , $0.60. 

PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale Sy- 
nodi Diocesanae ac Provincialis Cele- 
brandae. net , $1.00. 

QUESTIONS OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
Slater, S.J. net , $3.00. 

RECORD OF BAPTISMS. 200 pages, 
700 entries, net , $7.00; 400 pages, 1400 
entries, net , $9.00; 600 pages, 2100 
entries, net , $12.00. 

RECORD OF CONFIRMATIONS. 
net , $6.00. 

RECORD OF FIRST COMMUNIONS. 
net , $6.00. 

RECORD OF INTERMENTS. net , 
$6.00. 

RECORD OF MARRIAGES. 200 
pages, 7 < x > entries, net , $7.00.; 400 pages, 
1400 entries, net , $9.00; 600 pages, 
2100 entries, net , $12.00. 

RITUALE COMPENDIOSUM. Cloth, 
net , $1.25; seal, net , $2.00. 

SHORT HISTORY OF MORAL THE¬ 
OLOGY. Slater, S.J. net , $0.75. 


5 


SPECIAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. 
Gigot. Part I. net , ^$2.75. Part II. 

SpTrAGO’S S METHOD OF CHRISTIAN 
DOCTRINE. Messmer. net , $2.50. 


TEXTUAL CONCORDANCE OF THt- 
HOLY SCRIPTURES. Williams. 

WHAT 5 ’ 7 CATHOLICS HAVE DONE 
FOR SCIENCE. Brennan. net , 
$1.50. 


IV. SERMONS 


CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. Bono- 
melli, D.D.-Byrne. 4 vols., net , $9.00. 
EIGHT-MINUTE SERMONS. De- 
mouy. 2 vois., net . $4.00. 

HOMILIES ON THE COMMON OF 
SAINTS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 2 vols., 


net , $4.50. 

HOMILIES ON THE EPISTLES AND 
GOSPELS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 4 vols. 
net , $9.00. 

MASTER’S WORD, THE, IN THE 
EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. Flynn. 

2 vols., net , $4.00. 

POPULAR SERMONS ON THE CAT¬ 
ECHISM. Bamberg-Thursxon, S.J. 

3 vols., net, $8.50. 

SERMONS. Canon Sheehan, net , $3.00. 
SERMONS FOR CHILDREN’S MASSES. 

Frassinetti-Lings. net , $2.50. 
SERMONS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND CHIEF FESTIVALS OF THE 
ECCLESIASTICAL YjEAR. Pott- 
geisser, SJ. 3 vols., net , $5.00. 


SERMONS ON OUR BLESSED LADY. 
Flynn, net , $2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE BLESSED SAC¬ 
RAMENT. Scheurer-Lasance. net , 

SERMONS ON THE CHIEF CHRIS¬ 
TIAN VIRTUES. Hunolt-Wirth. net , 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE DUTIES OF 
CHRISTIANS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE FOUR LAST 
THINGS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE SEVEN DEADLY 
SINS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE VIRTUE AND 
THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE. 
Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE MASS, THE SAC¬ 
RAMENTS AND THE SACRA- 
MENTALS. Flynn, net , $ 2 . 75 . 


V. HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, HAGIOLOGY, TRAVEL 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. IGNA¬ 
TIUS LOYOLA. O’Connor, S J. net, 
$i. 7 S- 

CAMILLUS DE LELLIS. By a Sister 
of Mercy, net , $1. 75 - 

CHILD’S LIFE OF ST. JOAN OF 
ARC. Mannix. net, $1.50. 

GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF 
THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL SYS¬ 
TEM IN THE UNITED STATES. 
Burns, C.S.C. net , $2.50. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 
CHURCH. Brueck. 2 vols., net, 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 
CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net, 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 
CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net, 

HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT 
REFORMATION. Cobbett-Gas- 
quet. net , $0.85. 

HISTORY OF THE MASS. O’Brien. 

HOLINESS OF THE CHURCH IN THE 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. Kempf, 
S.J. net , $2.75. 

LIFE OF ST. MARGARET MARY 
ALACOQUE Illustrated. Bougaud. 
net $2.75. 


LIFE OF CHRIST. Businger-Brennan , 
Illustrated. Half morocco, gilt edges, 
net , $15-00. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Illustrated. Bus- 
inger-Mullett. net , $3.50. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Cochem. net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA. 
Genelli, S.J. net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF MADEMOISELLE LE 
GRAS, net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF POPE PIUS X. Illustrated. 
net , $3.50. 

LIFE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 
Rohner. net , $0.85. 

LITTLE LIVES OF THE SAINTS FOR 
CHILDREN. Berthold. net , $0.75. 

LITTLE PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE 
SAINTS. With 400 illustrations, net , 
$ 2 . 00 . 

LIVES OF THE SAINTS. Butler 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net , $0.85. 

LOURDES. Clarke, S.J. net , $0.85. 

MARY THE QUEEN. By a Religious. 
net , $0.60. 

MIDDLE AGES, THE. Shahan. **,$3.00. 

MILL TOWN PASTOR, A. Conroy, 
S.J. net , $1.75. 

NAMES THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC 
HEARTS. Sadlier. net , $0.85. 

OUR OWN ST. RITA. Corcoran, 
O.S.A. net , $1.50. 


6 


SAINTS FOR CATHOLIC 
YOUTH. _ Mannix. Each life separately 
in attractive colored paper cover with 
illustration on front cover. Each, io 
cents postpaid; per 25 copies, assorted, 
Si- 75 ; per 100 copies, assorted, 
.$ 6 - 7 S- Sold only in packages con¬ 
taining 5 copies of one title. 

For Boys: St. Joseph; St. Aloysius; St. 
Anthony; St. Bernard; St. Martin; 
St. Michael; St. Francis Xavier; St. 
Patrick; St. Charles; St. Philip. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net, $1.00. 

For Girls: St. Ann; St. Agnes; St. 
Teresa; St. Rose of Lima; St. Cecilia; 
St. Helena; St. Bridget; St. Catherine; 
St. Elizabeth; St. Margaret. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net, $1.00. 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
With nearly 400 illustrations and over 
600 pages, net, $5.00. 

POPULAR LIFE OF ST. TERESA. 

L’abbe Joseph, net, $0.85. 
PRINCIPLES ORIGIN AND ESTAB¬ 
LISHMENT OF THE CATHOLIC 
SCHOOL SYSTEM IN THE UNITED 
STATES. Burns, C.S.C. net, $2.50. 
RAMBLES IN CATHOLIC LANDS. 
Barrett, O.S.B. Illustrated, net, $3.50. 


ROMA. Pagan Subterranean and Mod¬ 
em Rome in Word and Picture. By 
Rev. Albert Kuhn, O.S.B., D.D. 
Preface by Cardinal Gibbons. 617 
pages. 744 illustrations. 48 full-page 
inserts, 3 plans of Rome in colors, 8J 
X12 inches. Red im. leather, gold 
side, net, $12.00. 

ROMAN CURIA AS IT NOW EXISTS. 
Martin, S.J. net, $2.50. 

ST. ANTHONY. Ward, net, $o.8 S . 

ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. Dubois, 
S.M. net, $0.85. 

ST. JOAN OF ARC. Lynch, S.J. Illus¬ 
trated. net, $2.75. 

ST. JOHN BERCHMANS. Dele- 
haye, S.J. -Semple, S.J. net, $1.50. 

SAINTS AND PLACES. By John 
Ayscouch. Illustrated, net, $3.00. 

SHORT LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
Donnelly, net, $0.90. 

STORY OF THE DIVINE CHILD. 

orri? I( V 0r Children. Lings, net, $0.60. 

STORY OF THE ACTS OF THE APOS¬ 
TLES. Lynch, S.J. Illustrated, net, 
$2.75. 

WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY. Sadlier 
net, $0.85. 

WONDER STORY, THE. Taggart. 
Illustrated. Board covers, net, $0.25; 
per 100, $22.50. Also an edition in 
French and Polish at same price. 


VI. JUVENILES 


FATHER FINN’S BOOKS. 

Each, net, $1.00. 

ON THE RUN. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. 

FACING DANGER. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR. A Sequel to 
“Lucky Bob.” 

LUCKY BOB. 

PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A 
BOY OF HIM. 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR. MAKING A 
START. 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT; OR, HOW 
THE PROBLEM WAS SOLVED. 

HARRY DEE; OR, WORKING IT 
OUT. 

ETHELRED PRESTON; OR. THE 
ADVENTURES OF A NEWCOMER. 

THE BEST FOOT FORWARD; AND 
OTHER STORIES. 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY 
GRACE” 

CUPID OF CAMPION. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME, AND 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 

THE FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEAR¬ 
ANCE. 

MOSTLY BOYS. SHORT STORIES. 

FATHER SPALDING'S BOOKS. 

Each, net, $1.00. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. 


THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH 
FORK. 

THE CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. 
THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. 
THE MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 
THE OLD MILL ON THE WITH- 
ROSE 

THE SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER 

ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. 

Ferry, net, $0.60. 

ALTHEA. Nerdlinger. net, $0.85. 

AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. Copus, 
S.J. net, $1.25. 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. Manndc. net, 
$0.60. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

BELL FOUNDRY. Schaching, net,% 0.60. 
BERKLEYS. THE. Wight, net $ 0.60. 
BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. Finn, 
S.J. net, $1.00. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. Aumerle. net, 
$0.85. 

BISTOURI. Melandri. net, $0.60. 
BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. Tag¬ 
gart. net, $0.60. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

BOB O’LINK. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
BROWNIE AND I. Aumerle. net, $0.85. 
BUNT AND BILL. Mulholland. net, 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY GRACE.” 

Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. Taggart. 
net, $0.60. 


7 


CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. Spalding, 
S.J. net, $1.00. 

CAPTAIN TED. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 
CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.00. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. Mannix. net, 

CHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN. 

Delaware, net, $0.85. 

CLARE LORAINE. “Lee.” net,% 0.85. 
CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. Finn, S.J. net, 

COBRA ISLAND. Boyton, S.J. net, 

CUPAJR.EVISITED. Mannix. net, $0.60. 
CUPID OF CAMPION. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. . . 

DADDY DAN. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
DEAR FRIENDS. Nirdunger. «,$o.8s. 
DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. Mulholland. 
net, $0.60. 

ETHELRED PRESTON. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. Crowley, net, 
FACING DAN.GER. Finn, S.J. net, 

$1 .OO. 

FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

FINDING OF TONY. Waggaman. net, 

FIVE BIRDS IN A NEST. Delamare. 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By a Reli¬ 
gious. net, $0.85. 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. Egan, net, 

FOR 2 THE WHITE ROSE. Hinkson. 

FREDAS LITTLE DAUGHTER. Smith. 

FREDDY°CARR’S ADVENTURES. 

Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. TOT _.__ 
FREDDY CARR AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. 

GOLDEN LILY, THE. Hinkson. net, 

GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. Hinkson. net, 

HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. Man¬ 
nix. net, $0.60. 

HARMONY FLATS. Whitmire, net, 
$0.85. 

HARRY DEE. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
HARRY RUSSELL. Copus, S.J. net, 

HEIR S OF DREAMS, AN. O’Malley. 
net, $0.60. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $100. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. 

Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR, Finn. S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. Bonesteel. 
net, $0.60. 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. 
Egan, net, $0.85. 

IN QUEST OF ADVENTURE. Man¬ 
nix. net, $0.60. 

IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN CHEST. 
Barton, net, $0.85. 


JACK. By a Religious, H.C.J. net ; 
$0.60. 

JACK-O’LANTERN. Waggaman. net, 

JAUK° HILDRETH ON THE NILE. 

JlSraRS T 'OF C ST?' 8 BEDE’S. Bryson. 
net, $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First 

Series. net $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second 
Series, net, $0.85. 

KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. Donnelly. 

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE 
HOLY CHILD JESUS, Lutz, net, 

LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES. 

Delamare. net, $0.60. _ 4 __ 

LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST. 

Roberts, net, $0.60._ 

LITTLE LADY OF THE HALL. Rye- 
man. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE LAKE. 

Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.85. 

LITTLE MISSY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCAR¬ 
LET. Taggart, net, $1.25. 

LUCKY BOB. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. Bru¬ 
no we. net, $0.60. 

MAD KNIGHT, THE. Schaching. net, 

MAKING OF MORTLAKE. Copus, S.J. 

MAN $I FROM NOWHERE. Sadlier. 

marks’ 8s 6f THE BEAR CLAWS. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $i.°°._ 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. Sad- 
lier. net, $0.60. 

MILLY AVELING. Smith, net, $0.85. 
MIR ALDA. Johnson, net, $0.60. 

MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

By a Religious, net, $0. 85. 

MOSTLY BOYS, Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. Sadlier. 
net, $0.60. 

MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. 
Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. Barton. 
net, $0.85. 

NAN NOBODY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
NEDRIEDER. Wehs. net, $0 85 
NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE’S. 

Brunowe. net, $0.85. _ ^ 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. 
Smith, net, $0.60. 

OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

ON THE OLD CAMPING GROUND. 

Mannix. net, $0.85. 

ON THE RUN. Finn, S. J. net, $1.00. 
PANCHO AND PANCHITA. Mannix. 

net, $0,60. _ „ 

PAULINE ARCHER Sadlier. net, $0.60. 
PERCY WYNN. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
PERIL OF DIONYSIO. Mannix. net, 
$0.60. 

PETRONILLA. Donnelly, net, $0.85. 
PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey, net. 
$1.25. 


8 




PILGRIM FROM IRELAND. Carnot. 
net, $0.60. 

PLAYWATER PLOT, THE. Wagga¬ 
man. net, $1.25. 

POLLY DAY’S ISLAND. Roberts, net, 
$0.85. . „ 

POVERINA. Buckenham. net, $0.85. 
QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Wagga- 

QUEST OF $ MARY SELWYN. Clem- 

RaS^R COPPER ISLAND. Spald- 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. Bonx- 

ROMANCE OF°THE SILVER SHOON. 

Bearne, S .J. net, $i.2S. 

ST. CUTHBERT’S. Copus, SJ. net, 

SANDY JOE. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 
SEA-GULL’S ROCK. Sandeau. net, 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. 

Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.60. 

SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus, S.J. net, 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 
SHIPMATES. Waggaman. nelti2$. 
SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 

Spalding, S.J. net, %i.oo. 

STRONG ARM OF AVALON. Wag¬ 
gaman. net, $1.25. _ 

SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.00. 


SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. Sadlier. 
net, $0.60. 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE 
MIDDLE AGES, de Capella. net, 
$0.85. ^ „ 

TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

TAMING OF POLLY. Dorsey, net, 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. Finn, S.J. net, 
Sx.oo. 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY 
ONE. Taggart, net, $0.60. 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Salome. 
net, $0.85. 

TOM LOSELY; BOY. Copus, S.J. net, 

TOM*PLAYFAIR. Finn. S.J. net,% 1.00. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. net, 
$0.60. ^ , 

TOORALLADDY. Walsh, net, $0.60. 

TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. Wag- 

TREASURE^’ OF^NUGGET MOUN¬ 
TAIN. Taggart, net, $0.85. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack, net, 
$0.60. 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY. Clemen- 

UPS A ’AND $ DOWNS OF MARJORIE. 
Waggaman. net, $0.60. 

VIOLIN MAKER. Smith, net, $0.60. 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. 
Taggart, net, $0.85. 

YOUNG COLOR GUARD. Bonesteel, 
net, $0.60. 


VII. NOVELS 


ISABEL C. CLARKE’S GREAT 
NOVELS. Each, net, $2.00. 

CARINA. 

AVERAGE CABINS. 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON. 
THE POTTER’S HOUSE. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. 

URSULA FINCH. 

THE ELSTONES. 

LADYTRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
CHILDREN OF EVE. 

THE DEEP HEART. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. 

FINE CLAY. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. 

THE REST HOUSE. 

ONLY ANNE. 

THE SECRET CITADEL. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER. 

ALBERTA: ADVENTURESS. L’Er- 
mtte. 8vo. net, $2.00. 

AVERAGE CABINS. Clarke. net,%2.oo. 
BACK TO THE WORLD. Champol. 
net, $2.00. 

BARRIER, THE. Bazin, net, $1-65- 
BALLADS OF CHILDHOOD. Poems. 

Earls, S.J. net, $1.50. 

BLACK BROTHERHOOD, THE. Gar- 
rold, S.J. net, $2.00. 

BOND AND FREE. Connor. net,% 0.85. 


BUNNY’S HOUSE. Walker, net, $2.00. 
BY THE BLUE RIVER. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

CARINA. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
CARROLL DARE. Waggaman. n, $0.85. 
CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. 

Brackel. net, $0.85. 

CHILDREN OF EVE. Clarke. n,%2.oo. 
CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. 

Bertholds. net, $0.85. 

CORINNE’S VOW. Waggaman. net, 

DAUGHTER OF KINGS, A. Hinkson. 
net $2.00. 

DEE’p HEART, THE. Clarke, net, 

DENYS THE DREAMER. Hinkson. 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. Keon. net, 

ELDER MISS AINSBOROUGH, THE. 

Taggart, net, $0.85. 

ELSTONES, THE. Clarke, net, *2.00. 
EUNICE. Clarke. net,% 2.00 
FABIOLA. Wiseman, net, $o.8s. 
FABIOLA’S SISTERS. Clarke, n, $0.85. 
FATAL BEACON, THE. Brackel. 
net, $0.85. 

FAUSTULA. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
FINE CLAY. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
FLAME OF THE FOREST. Bishop. 
net, $2.00. 


FORGIVE AND FORGET. Lingen. 
net, $0.85. 

GRAPES OF THORNS. Waggaman. 
net, $0.85. 

HEART OF A MAN. Maher, net, $2.00. 

HEARTS OF GOLD. Edhor. net, $0.85. 

HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. Hahn- 
Hahn. net, $0.85. 

HER BLIND FOLLY. How. net, $0.85. 

HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER. Hink¬ 
son. net, $2.00. 

HER FATHER’S SHARE. Power, net, 
$0.85. 

HER JOURNEY’S END. Cooke, net, 
$0.85. 

IDOLS; or THE SECRET OF THE 
RUE CHAUSSE D’ANTIN. de Nav- 
ery. net, $0.85. 

IN GOD’S GOOD TIME. Ross, net, 
$0.85. 

IN SPITE OF ALL. Staniforth, net, 
$0.85. 

IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. Tag¬ 
gart, net, $0.85. 

IVY HEDGE, THE. Egan, net , $2.00. 

KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. 
Harrison, net, $0.85. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

LIGHT OF HIS COUNTENANCE. 
Hart, net, $0.85. 

LIGHT ON THE LAGOON, THE. 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

“LIKE UNTO A MERCHANT.” Gray. 
net, $2.00. 

LITTLE CARDINAL. Parr. net,$ 1.65. 

LOVE OF BROTHERS. Hinkson. net, 
$2.00. 

MARCELLA GRACE. Mulholland. 
net, $0.85. 

MARIE OF THE HOUSE D’ANTERS. 
Earls, SJ. net, $2.00. 

MARIQUITA. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 

MELCHIOR OF BOSTON. Earls, SJ. 
net, $0.85. v 

MIGHTY FRIEND, THE. L’Ermite. 
net, $2.00. 

MIRROR OF SHALOTT. Benson, net, 
$2.00. 

MISS ERIN. Francis, net, $0.85. 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. Lkcky. *,$1.65. 

MONK’S PARDON, THE. de Navery. 
net, $0.85. 

MY LADY BEATRICE. Cooke, net, 
$0 8? 

NOT A JUDGMENT. Keon. net, $1.65. 

ONLY ANNE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 

OTHER MISS LISLE. Martin. *,$0.85. 

OUT OF BONDAGE. Holt, net, $ 0.85. 

OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE. de La- 
mothe. net, $0.85. 

PASSING SHADOWS. Yorke. net, 
$1.65. 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. Lecky. 
net, $1.65. 

POTTER’S HOUSE, THE. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

PRODIGAL’S DAUGHTER, THE, AND 
OTHER STORIES. Bugg. net, $1.50. 

PROPHET’S WIFE. Browne, net, $1.25. 


RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. Sadleer 
net, $0.85. 

REST HOUSE, THE. Clarke. »#*,.$ 2.00. 
ROSE OF THE WORLD. Martin, net , 
$0.85. 

ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN 
CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net , $0 85. 
ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS. net , $o.8s. 
ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net , $ 0 . 85 . 
ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND ENG¬ 
LISH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS- net , 
$ 0.85. 

RUBY CROSS, THE. Wallace, net , 

RULER OF THE KINGDOM. Keon. 

net, $1.65. 

SECRET CITADEL, THE. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. y 

SECRET OF THE GREEN VASE. 
Cooke, net, $0.85. 

SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH. Lans- 
downe. net, $0.85. 

SHIELD OF SILENCE. Henry-Ruf- 
fin. net, $2.00. 

SO AS BY FIRE. Connor, net , $0.85. 
SON OF SIRO, THE. Copus, S j. net , 
$2.00. 


STORY OF CECILIA, THE. Hinkson. 
net, $1.65. 

STUORE. Earls, S.J. net , $1.50. 
TEMPEST OF THE HEART. Gray. 
net, $0.85. 

TEST OF COURAGE. Ross, net , $0.85. 
THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. Ross, net , 
$0.85. 

THEIR CHOICE. Skinner, net , $0.85. 
THROUGH THE DESERT. Sienkie- 
wicz. net, $2.00. 

TIDEWAY, THE. Ayscough. net , $2.00. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. Clarke, net , 
$2.00. 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. 
Sadlier. net, $1.65. 

TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. Gray. 
net, $0.85. 

UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. Cooke. 
net, $0.85. 

UNDER THE CEDARS AND THE 
STARS. Canon Sheehan, net , $2.00. 
UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE, THE. 

Taggart, net, $1.25. 

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. Barrett. 
O.S.B. net, $1.65. 

URSULA FINCH. Clarke, net , $2.00. 
VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, 
THE. Egan, net , $1.65. 

WARGRAVE TRUs¥, THE. Reid, net , 
$1.65. 

WAR MOTHERS. Poems. Garesch£, 
S.J. net, $0.60. 

WAY THAT LED BEYOND, 
Harrison, net , $0.85. 

WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDA- 
LOUGH, THE. Earls, S.J. net , $2.00. 
WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. Keon 
net, $1.65. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. Reid, net, 

$1.65. 


THE. 


10 



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